ODD. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


BOOKS  BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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OUT-OF-DOORS 

IN  THE 
HOLY  LAND 


The  Gate  of  David,  Jerusalem. 


OUT-OF-DOORS 

IN 

THE   HOLY   LAND 

IMPRESSIONS    OF   TRAVEL 
IN  BODY  AND  SPIRIT 

BY 
HHNRY    VAN    DYKE 

ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
MDCCCCXII 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Charles  Scribntr's  Sont 


Published,  November,  1908.  Reprinted,  December, 
iqo8;  November,  iqoq;  August,  September,  iqn; 
October,  iqia. 

Leather  Edition,  September,  iqif. 


HOWARD  CROSBY  BUTLER 

MASTER  OF  MERWICK 

PROFESSOR  OF  ART  AND  ARCH^OLOGl 

WHO  WAS  A  FRIEND  TO  THIS  JOURNEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

BY    HIS    FRIEND 

THE  AUTHOR 


PREFACE 

FOR  a  long  time,  in  the  hopefulness  and  confidence 
of  youth,  I  dreamed  of  going  to  Palestine.  But  that 
dream  was  denied,  for  want  of  money  and  leisure. 

Then,  for  a  long  time,  in  the  hardening  strain  of 
early  manhood,  I  was  afraid  to  go  to  Palestine,  lest 
the  journey  should  prove  a  disenchantment,  and 
some  of  my  religious  beliefs  be  rudely  shaken,  per- 
haps destroyed.  But  that  fear  was  removed  by  a 
little  voyage  to  the  gates  of  death,  where  it  was  made 
clear  to  me  that  no  belief  is  worth  keeping  unless  it 
can  bear  the  touch  of  reality. 

In  that  year  of  pain  and  sorrow,  through  a  full 
surrender  to  the  Divine  Will,  the  hopefulness  and 
confidence  of  youth  came  back  to  me.  Since  then  it 
has  been  possible  once  more  to  wake  in  the  morning 
with  the  feeling  that  the  day  might  bring  something 
new  and  wonderful  and  welcome,  and  to  travel  into 
the  future  with  a  whole  and  happy  heart. 

This  is  what  I  call  growing  younger;  though  the 
ix 


PREFACE 

years  increase,  yet  the  burden  of  them  is  lessened, 
and  the  fear  that  life  will  some  day  lead  into  an  empty 
prison-house  has  been  cast  out  by  the  incoming  of 
the  Perfect  Love. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  when  a  friend  offered  me, 
at  last,  the  opportunity  of  going  to  Palestine  if  I 
would  give  him  my  impressions  of  travel  for  his  mag- 
azine, I  was  glad  to  go.  Partly  because  there  was 
a  piece  of  work, — a  drama  whose  scene  lies  in 
Damascus  and  among  the  mountains  of  Samaria, — 
that  I  wanted  to  finish  there;  partly  because  of  the 
expectancy  that  on  such  a  journey  any  of  the  days 
might  indeed  bring  something  new  and  wonderful 
and  welcome ;  but  most  of  all  because  I  greatly  de- 
sired to  live  for  a  little  while  in  the  country  of  Jesus, 
hoping  to  learn  more  of  the  meaning  of  His  life  in 
the  land  where  it  was  spent,  and  lost,  and  forever 
saved. 

Here,  then,  you  have  the  history  of  this  little 
book,  reader:  and  if  it  pleases  you  to  look  further 
into  its  pages,  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  far  my 
dreams  and  hopes  were  realised. 

It  is  the  record  of  a  long  journey  in  the  spirit  and 
x 


PREFACE 

a  short  voyage  in  the  body.  If  you  find  here  im- 
pressions that  are  lighter,  mingled  with  those  that 
are  deeper,  that  is  because  life  itself  is  really 
woven  of  such  contrasted  threads.  Even  on  a 
pilgrimage  small  adventures  happen.  Of  the  elders 
of  Israel  on  Sinai  it  is  written,  "They  saw  God  and 
did  eat  and  drink";  and  the  Apostle  Paul  was  not 
too  much  engrossed  with  his  mission  to  send  for  the 
cloak  and  books  and  parchments  that  he  left  behind 
at  Troas. 

If  what  you  read  here  makes  you  wish  to  go  to 
the  Holy  Land,  I  shall  be  glad;  and  if  you  go 
in  the  right  way,  you  surely  will  not  be  disappointed. 

But  there  are  two  things  in  the  book  which  I 
would  not  have  you  miss. 

The  first  is  the  new  conviction, — new  at  least  to 
me, — that  Christianity  is  an  out-of-doors  religion. 
From  the  birth  in  the  grotto  at  Bethlehem  (where 
Joseph  and  Mary  took  refuge  because  there  was  no 
room  for  them  in  the  inn)  to  the  crowning  death 
on  the  hill  of  Calvary  outside  the  city  wall,  all  of  its 
important  events  took  place  out-of-doors.  Except 
the  discourse  in  the  upper  chamber  at  Jerusalem, 

xi 


PREFACE 

all  of  its  great  words,  from  the  sermon  on  the 
mount  to  the  last  commission  to  the  disciples,  were 
spoken  in  the  open  air.  How  shall  we  understand 
it  unless  we  carry  it  under  the  free  sky  and  inter- 
pret it  in  the  companionship  of  nature  ? 

The  second  thing  that  I  would  have  you  find  here 
is  the  deepened  sense  that  Jesus  Himself  is  the  great, 
the  imperishable  miracle.  His  words  are  spirit  and 
life.  His  character  is  the  revelation  of  the  Perfect 
Love.  This  was  the  something  new  and  wonderful 
and  welcome  that  came  to  me  in  Palestine:  a  sim- 
pler, clearer,  surer  view  of  the  human  life  of  God. 


HENRY  VAN   DYKE. 


AVALON, 

JUNE  10,  1908. 


Xll 


CONTENTS 

I.  Travellers'  Joy  1 

II.  Going  up  to  Jerusalem  23 

III.  The  Gates  of  Zion  45 

IV.  Mizpah  and  the  Mount  of  Olives  67 
V.  An  Excursion  to  Bethlehem  and  Hebron      83 

VI.  The  Temple  and  the  Sepulchre  105 

VII.  Jericho  and  Jordan  125 

VIII.  A  Journey  to  Jerash  151 

IX.  The  Mountains  of  Samaria  191 

X.  Galilee  and  the  Lake  217 

XI.  The  Springs  of  Jordan  259 

XII.  The  Road  to  Damascus  291 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Gate  of  David,  Jerusalem  Frontispiece 

Jaffa                                                                Facing  page  14 

The  port  where  King  Solomon  landed  his  cedar  beams 
from  Lebanon  for  the  building  of  the  Temple 

The  Tall  Tower  of  the  Forty  Martyrs  at  Ramleh  28 

A  Street  in  Jerusalem  60 

A  Street  in  Bethlehem  86 

The  Market-place,  Bethlehem  90 

Great  Monastery  of  St.  George  136 

Ruins  of  Jerash,  Looking  West  184 
PropyloEum  and  Temple  terrace 

The  Virgin's  Fountain,  Nazareth  232 

The  Approach  to  Baniyas  276 

Bridge  Over  the  River  Litani  282 

A  Small  Bazaar  in  Damascus  316 


I 

TRAVELLERS'    JOY 


INVITATION 

?VHO  would  not  go  to  Palestine ? 

To  look  upon  that  little  stage  where  the  drama  of 
humanity  has  centred  in  such  unforgetable  scenes; 
to  trace  the  rugged  paths  and  ancient  highways 
along  which  so  many  heroic  and  pathetic  figures 
have  travelled ;  above  all,  to  see  with  the  eyes  as  well 
as  with  the  heart 

"Those  holy  fields 

Over  whose  acres  walked  those  blessed  feet 
Which,  nineteen  hundred  years  ago,  were  nail'd 
For  our  advantage  on  the  bitter  cross" — 

for  the  sake  of  these  things  who  would  not  travel  far 
and  endure  many  hardships  ? 

It  is  easy  to  find  Palestine.  It  lies  in  the  south- 
east corner  of  the  Mediterranean  coast,  where  the 
"sea  in  the  midst  of  the  nations,"  makes  a  great 
elbow  between  Asia  Minor  and  Egypt.  A  tiny 

land,  about  a  hundred  and   fifty  miles  long   and 

3 


sixty  miles  wide,  stretching  in  a  fourfold  band  from 
the  foot  of  snowy  Hermon  and  the  Lebanons  to  the 
fulvous  crags  of  Sinai:  a  green  strip  of  fertile  plain 
beside  the  sea,  a  blue  strip  of  lofty  and  broken  high- 
lands, a  gray-and-yellow  strip  of  sunken  river- valley, 
a  purple  strip  of  high  mountains  rolling  away  to  the 
Arabian  desert.  There  are  a  dozen  lines  of  steam- 
ships to  carry  you  thither;  a  score  of  well-equipped 
agencies  to  conduct  you  on  what  they  call  "a  de  luxe 
religious  expedition  to  Palestine." 

But  how  to  find  the  Holy  Land — ah,  that  is  an- 
other question. 

Fierce  and  mighty  nations,  hundreds  of  human 
tribes,  have  trampled  through  that  coveted  corner 
of  the  earth,  contending  for  its  possession:  and 
the  fury  of  their  fighting  has  swept  the  fields  as 
with  fire.  Temples  and  palaces  have  vanished  like 
tents  from  the  hillside.  The  ploughshare  of  havoc 
has  been  driven  through  the  gardens  of  luxury. 
Cities  have  risen  and  crumbled  upon  the  ruins  of 
older  cities.  Crust  after  crust  of  pious  legend  has 
formed  over  the  deep  valleys;  and  tradition  has  set 
up  its  altars  "upon  every  high  hill  and  under  every 

4 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

green  tree."  The  rival  claims  of  sacred  places  are 
fiercely  disputed  by  churchmen  and  scholars.  It  is  a 
poor  prophet  that  has  but  one  birthplace  and  one  tomb. 

And  now,  to  complete  the  confusion,  the  hur- 
ried, nervous,  comfort-loving  spirit  of  modern  curi- 
osity has  broken  into  Palestine,  with  railways  from 
Jaffa  to  Jerusalem,  from  Mount  Carmel  to  the  Sea 
of  Galilee,  from  Beirut  to  Damascus, — with  macad- 
amized roads  to  Shechem  and  Nazareth  and  Tiberias, 
— with  hotels  at  all  the  "principal  points  of  inter- 
est,"— and  with  every  facility  for  doing  Palestine  in 
ten  days,  without  getting  away  from  the  market-re- 
ports, the  gossip  of  the  table  d'Jwte,  and  all  that  queer 
little  complex  of  distracting  habits  which  we  call 
civilization. 

But  the  Holy  Land  which  I  desire  to  see  can  be 
found  only  by  escaping  from  these  things.  I  want  to 
get  away  from  them;  to  return  into  the  long  past, 
which  is  also  the  hidden  present,  and  to  lose  myself 
a  little  there,  to  the  end  that  I  may  find  myself  again. 
I  want  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  soul  of  that 
land  where  so  much  that  is  strange  and  memorable 
and  for  ever  beautiful  has  come  to  pass:  to  walk 

5 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

quietly  and  humbly,  without  much  disputation  or 
talk,  in  fellowship  with  the  spirit  that  haunts  those 
hills  and  vales,  under  the  influence  of  that  deep  and 
lucent  sky.  I  want  to  feel  that  ineffable  charm  which 
breathes  from  its  mountains,  meadows  and  streams: 
that  charm  which  made  the  children  of  Israel  in  the 
desert  long  for  it  as  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey;  and  the  great  Prince  Joseph  in  Eygpt  require 
an  oath  of  his  brethren  that  they  would  lay  his  bones 
in  the  quiet  vale  of  Shechem  where  he  had  fed  his 
father's  sheep ;  and  the  daughters  of  Jacob  beside  the 
rivers  of  Babylon  mingle  tears  with  their  music  when 
they  remembered  Zion. 

There  was  something  in  that  land,  surely,  some 
personal  and  indefinable  spirit  of  place,  which  was 
known  and  loved  by  prophet  and  psalmist,  and  most 
of  all  by  Him  who  spread  His  table  on  the  green 
grass,  and  taught  His  disciples  while  they  walked 
the  narrow  paths  waist-deep  hi  rustling  wheat, 
and  spoke  His  messages  of  love  from  a  little  boat 
rocking  on  the  lake,  and  found  His  asylum  of  prayer 
high  on  the  mountainside,  and  kept  His  parting-hour 
with  His  friends  in  the  moon-silvered  quiet  of  the 

6 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

garden  of  olives.  That  spirit  of  place,  that  soul  of  the 
Holy  Land,  is  what  I  fain  would  meet  on  my  pilgrim- 
age,— for  the  sake  of  Him  who  interprets  it  in  love. 
And  I  know  well  where  to  find  it, — out-of-doors. 

I  will  not  sleep  under  a  roof  in  Palestine,  but 
nightly  pitch  my  wandering  tent  beside  some  foun- 
tain, in  some  grove  or  garden,  on  some  vacant  thresh- 
ing-floor, beneath  the  Syrian  stars.  I  will  not  join 
myself  to  any  company  of  labelled  tourists  hurrying 
with  much  discussion  on  their  appointed  itinerary, 
but  take  into  fellowship  three  tried  and  trusty  com- 
rades, that  we  may  enjoy  solitude  together.  I  will 
not  seek  to  make  any  archaeological  discovery,  nor 
to  prove  any  theological  theory,  but  simply  to  ride 
through  the  highlands  of  Judea,  and  the  valley  of 
Jordan,  and  the  mountains  of  Gilead,  and  the  rich 
plains  of  Samaria,  and  the  grassy  hills  of  Galilee, 
looking  upon  the  faces  and  the  ways  of  the  common 
folk,  the  labours  of  the  husbandman  in  the  field,  the 
vigils  of  the  shepherd  on  the  hillside,  the  games  of  the 
children  in  the  market-place,  and  reaping 

"The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart." 

7 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

Four  things,  I  know,  are  unchanged  amid  all  the 
changes  that  have  passed  over  the  troubled  and 
bewildered  land.  The  cities  have  sunken  into  dust: 
the  trees  of  the  forest  have  fallen:  the  nations  have 
dissolved.  But  the  mountains  keep  their  immutable 
outline:  the  liquid  stars  shine  with  the  same  light, 
move  on  the  same  pathways:  and  between  the 
mountains  and  the  stars,  two  other  changeless 
things,  frail  and  imperishable, — the  flowers  that  flood 
the  earth  in  every  springtide,  and  the  human  heart 
where  hopes  and  longings  and  affections  and  desires 
blossom  immortally.  Chiefly  of  these  things,  and  of 
Him  who  gave  them  a  new  meaning,  I  will  speak  to 
you,  reader,  if  you  care  to  go  with  me  out-of-doors 
in  the  Holy  Land- 


8 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

II 
MOVING    PICTURES 

OF  the  voyage,  made  with  all  the  swiftness  and 
directness  of  one  who  seeks  the  shortest  distance  be- 
tween two  points,  little  remains  in  memory  except 
a  few  moving  pictures,  vivid  and  half-real,  as  in  a 
kinematograph. 

First  comes  a  long,  swift  ship,  the  Deutschland, 
quivering  and  rolling  over  the  dull  March  waves  of 
the  Atlantic.  Then  the  morning  sunlight  streams 
on  the  jagged  rocks  of  the  Lizard,  where  two  wrecked 
steamships  are  hanging,  and  on  the  green  headlands 
and  gray  fortresses  of  Plymouth.  Then  a  soft,  rosy 
sunset  over  the  mole,  the  dingy  houses,  the  tiled 
roofs,  the  cliffs,  the  misty-budded  trees  of  Cherbourg. 
Then  Paris  at  two  in  the  morning:  the  lower  quar- 
ters still  stirring  with  somnambulistic  life,  the  lines 
of  lights  twinkling  placidly  on  the  empty  boulevards. 
Then  a  whirl  through  the  Bois  in  a  motor-car,  a 
breakfast  at  Versailles  with  a  merry  little  party  of 
friends,  a  lazy  walk  through  miles  of  picture-galleries 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

without  a  guide-book  or  a  care.  Then  the  night  ex- 
press for  Italy,  a  glimpse  of  the  Alps  at  sunrise,  snow 
all  around  us,  the  thick  darkness  of  the  Mount  Cenis 
tunnel,  the  bright  sunshine  of  Italian  spring,  terraced 
hillsides,  clipped  and  pollarded  trees,  waking  vine- 
yards and  gardens,  Turin,  Genoa,  Rome,  arches  of 
ruined  aqueducts,  snow  upon  the  Southern  Apen- 
nines, the  blooming  fields  of  Capua,  umbrella-pines 
and  silvery  poplars,  and  at  last,  from  my  balcony  at 
the  hotel,  the  glorious  curving  panorama  of  the  bay 
of  Naples,  Vesuvius  without  a  cloud,  and  Capri  like 
an  azure  lion  couchant  on  the  broad  shield  of  the  sea. 
So  ends  the  first  series  of  films,  ten  days  from  home. 

After  an  intermission  of  twenty-four  hours,  the 
second  series  begins  on  the  white  ship  Oceana,  an 
immense  yacht,  ploughing  through  the  tranquil, 
sapphire  Mediterranean,  with  ten  passengers  on 
board,  and  the  band  playing  three  times  a  day  just 
as  usual.  Then  comes  the  low  line  of  the  African 
coast,  the  lighthouse  of  Alexandria,  the  top  of  Pom- 
pey's  Pillar  showing  over  the  white,  modern  city. 

Half  a  dozen  little  rowboats  meet  us,  well  out  at 
10 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

sea,  buffeted  and  tossed  by  the  waves :  they  are  fish- 
ing :  see !  one  of  the  men  has  a  strike,  he  pulls  in  his 
trolling-line,  hand  over  hand,  very  slowly,  it  seems, 
as  the  steamship  rushes  by.  I  lean  over  the  side,  run 
to  the  stern  of  the  ship  to  watch, — hurrah,  he  pulls 
in  a  silvery  fish  nearly  three  feet  long.  Good  luck  to 
you,  my  Egyptian  brother  of  the  angle ! 

Now  a  glimpse  of  the  crowded,  busy  harbour  of 
Alexandria,  (recalling  memories  of  fourteen  years 
ago,)  and  a  leisurely  trans-shipment  to  the  little  Khe- 
divial  steamer,  Prince  Abbas,  with  her  Scotch  offi- 
cers, Italian  stewards,  Maltese  doctor,  Turkish  sail- 
ors, and  freight-handlers  who  come  from  whatever 
places  it  has  pleased  Heaven  they  should  be  born  in. 
The  freight  is  variegated,  and  the  third-class  passen- 
gers are  a  motley  crowd. 

A  glance  at  the  forward  main-deck  shows  Egyp- 
tians in  white  cotton,  and  Turks  in  the  red  fez,  and 
Arabs  in  white  and  brown,  and  coal-black  Soudan- 
ese, and  nondescript  Levantines,  and  Russians 
in  fur  coats  and  lamb's-wool  caps,  and  Greeks  in 
blue  embroidered  jackets,  and  women  in  baggy  trous- 
ers and  black  veils,  and  babies,  and  cats,  and  parrots. 

11 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

Here  is  a  tall,  venerable  grandfather,  with  spectacles 
and  a  long  gray  beard,  dressed  in  a  black  robe  with 
a  hood  and  a  yellow  scarf;  grave,  patriarchal,  imper- 
turbable: his  little  granddaughter,  a  pretty  elf  of  a 
child,  with  flower-like  face  and  shining  eyes,  dances 
hither  and  yon  among  the  chaos  of  freight  and  lug- 
gage; but  as  the  chill  of  evening  descends  she  takes 
shelter  between  his  knees,  under  the  folds  of  his  long 
robe,  and,  while  he  feeds  her  with  bread  and  sweet- 
meats, keeps  up  a  running  comment  of  remarks  and 
laughter  at  all  around  her,  and  the  unspeakable 
solemnity  of  old  Father  Abraham's  face  is  lit  up,  now 
and  then,  with  the  flicker  of  a  resistless  smile. 

Here  are  two  bronzed  Arabs  of  the  desert,  in 
striped  burnoose  and  white  kaftan,  stretched  out  for 
the  night  upon  their  rugs  of  many  colours.  Between 
them  lies  their  latest  purchase,  a  brand-new  patent 
carpet-sweeper,  made  in  Ohio,  and  going,  who  knows 
where  among  the  hills  of  Bashan. 

A  child  dies  in  the  night,  on  the  voyage;  in  the 
morning,  at  anchor  in  the  mouth  of  the  Suez  Canal, 
we  hear  the  carpenter  hammering  together  a  little 
pine  coffin.  All  day  Sunday  the  indescribable  traffic 

12 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

of  Port  Said  passes  around  us;  ships  of  all  nations 
coming  and  going;  a  big  German  Lloyd  boat  just 
home  from  India  crowded  with  troops  in  khaki, 
band  playing,  flags  flying;  huge  dredgers,  sombre, 
oxlike-looking  things,  with  lines  of  incredibly  dirty 
men  in  fluttering  rags  running  up  the  gang-planks 
with  bags  of  coal  on  their  backs ;  rowboats  shuttling 
to  and  fro  between  the  ships  and  the  huddled,  tran- 
sient, modern  town,  which  is  made  up  of  curiosity 
shops,  hotels,  business  houses  and  dens  of  iniquity; 
a  row  of  Egyptian  sail  boats,  with  high  prows,  low 
sides,  long  lateen  yards,  ranged  along  the  entrance  to 
the  canal.  At  sunset  we  steam  past  the  big  statue  of 
Ferdinand  de  Lesseps,  standing  far  out  on  the  break- 
water and  pointing  back  with  a  dramatic  gesture  to 
his  world-transforming  ditch.  Then  we  go  dancing 
over  the  yellow  waves  into  the  full  moonlight  toward 
Palestine. 

In  the  early  morning  I  clamber  on  deck  into  a 
thunderstorm:  wild  west  wind,  rolling  billows,  flying 
gusts  of  rain,  low  clouds  hanging  over  the  sand-hills 
of  the  coast:  a  harbourless  shore,  far  as  eye  can  see,  a 

13 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

land  that  makes  no  concession  to  the  ocean  with  bay 
or  inlet,  but  cries,  "  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  but  no 
farther;  and  here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed." 
There  are  the  flat-roofed  houses,  and  the  orange 
groves,  and  the  minaret,  and  the  lighthouse  of  Jaffa, 
crowning  its  rounded  hill  of  rock.  We  are  tossing  at 
anchor  a  mile  from  the  shore.  Will  the  boats  come 
out  to  meet  us  in  this  storm,  or  must  we  go  on  to 
Haifa,  fifty  miles  beyond  ?  Rumour  says  that  the  po- 
lice have  refused  to  permit  the  boats  to  put  out.  But 
look,  here  they  come,  half  a  dozen  open  whale-boats, 
each  manned  by  a  dozen  lusty,  bare-legged,  brown 
rowers,  buffeting  their  way  between  the  scattered 
rocks,  leaping  high  on  the  crested  waves.  The  chiefs 
of  the  crews  scramble  on  board  the  steamer,  identify 
the  passengers  consigned  to  the  different  tourist-agen- 
cies, sort  out  the  baggage  and  lower  it  into  the  boats. 

My  tickets,  thus  far,  have  been  provided  by  the 
great  Cook,  and  I  fall  to  the  charge  of  his  head  boat- 
man, a  dusky  demon  of  energy.  A  slippery  climb 
down  the  swaying  ladder,  a  leap  into  the  arms  of  two 
sturdy  rowers,  a  stumble  over  the  wet  thwarts,  and  I 

14 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

find  myself  in  the  stern  sheets  of  the  boat.  A  young 
Dutchman  follows  with  stolid  suddenness.  Two 
Italian  gentlemen,  weeping,  refuse  to  descend  more 
than  half-way,  climb  back,  and  are  carried  on  to 
Haifa.  A  German  lady  with  a  parrot  in  a  cage  comes 
next,  and  her  anxiety  for  the  parrot  makes  her  forget 
to  be  afraid.  Then  comes  a  little  Polish  lady,  evi- 
dently a  bride;  she  shuts  her  eyes  tight  and  drops 
into  the  boat,  pale,  silent,  resolved  that  she  will  not 
scream:  her  husband  follows,  equally  pale,  and  she 
clings  indifferently  to  his  hand  and  to  mine,  her  eyes 
still  shut,  a  pretty  image  of  white  courage.  The  boat 
pushes  off;  the  rowers  smite  the  waves  with  their 
long  oars  and  sing  "Halli — yallah — yah  hallah"; 
the  steersman  high  in  the  stern  shouts  unintelligible 
(and,  I  fear,  profane)  directions;  we  are  swept  along 
on  the  tops  of  the  waves,  between  the  foaming  rocks, 
drenched  by  spray  and  flying  showers:  at  last  we 
bump  alongside  the  little  quay,  and  climb  out  on 
the  wet,  gliddery  stones. 

The  kinematograph  pictures  are  ended,  for  I  am 
in  Palestine,  on  the  first  of  April,  just  fifteen  days 
from  home. 

15 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

III 
RENDEZVOUS 

WILL  my  friends  be  here  to  meet  me,  I  wonder  ? 
This  is  the  question  which  presses  upon  me  more 
closely  than  anything  else,  I  must  confess,  as  I  set 
foot  for  the  first  time  upon  the  sacred  soil  of  Pales- 
tine. I  know  that  this  is  not  as  it  should  be.  All  the 
conventions  of  travel  require  the  pilgrim  to  experi- 
ence a  strange  curiosity  and  excitement,  a  profound 
emotion,  "a  supreme  anguish,"  as  an  Italian  writer 
describes  it,  "in  approaching  this  land  long  dreamed 
about,  long  waited  for,  and  almost  despaired  of." 

But  the  conventions  of  travel  do  not  always  cor- 
respond to  the  realities  of  the  heart.  Your  first  sight 
of  a  place  may  not  be  your  first  perception  of  it:  that 
may  come  afterward,  in  some  quiet,  unexpected 
moment.  Emotions  do  not  follow  a  time-table;  and 
I  propose  to  tell  no  lies  in  this  oook.  My  strongest 
feeling  as  I  enter  Jaffa  is  the  desire  to  know  whether 
my  chosen  comrades  have  come  to  the  rendezvous 
at  the  appointed  time,  to  begin  our  long  ride  together. 

16 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

It  is  a  remote  and  uncertain  combination,  I  grant 
you.  The  Patriarch,  a  tall,  slender  youth  of  seventy 
years,  whose  home  is  beside  the  Golden  Gate  of  Cali- 
fornia, was  wandering  among  the  ruins  of  Sicily 
when  I  last  heard  from  him.  The  Pastor  and  his 
wife,  the  Lady  of  Walla  Walla,  who  live  on  the  shores 
of  Puget  Sound,  were  riding  camels  across  the  pe- 
ninsula of  Sinai  and  steamboating  up  the  Nile.  Have 
the  letters,  the  cablegrams  that  were  sent  to  them 
been  safely  delivered?  Have  the  hundreds  of  un- 
known elements  upon  which  our  combination  de- 
pended been  working  secretly  together  for  its  suc- 
cess? Has  our  proposal  been  according  to  the 
supreme  disposal,  and  have  all  the  roads  been  kept 
clear  by  which  we  were  hastening  from  three  conti- 
nents to  meet  on  the  first  day  of  April  at  the  Hotel 
du  Pare  in  Jaffa  ? 

Yes,  here  are  my  three  friends,  in  the  quaint  little 
garden  of  the  hotel,  with  its  purple-flowering  vines 
of  Bougainvillea,  fragrant  orange-trees,  drooping 
palms,  and  long-tailed  cockatoos  drowsing  on  their 
perches.  When  people  really  know  each  other  an 
unfamiliar  meeting-place  lends  a  singular  intimacy 

17 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

and  joy  to  the  meeting.  There  is  a  surprise  in  it,  no 
matter  how  long  and  carefully  it  has  been  planned. 
There  are  a  thousand  things  to  talk  of,  but  at  first 
nothing  will  come  except  the  wonder  of  getting  to- 
gether. The  sight  of  the  desired  faces,  unchanged 
beneath  their  new  coats  of  tan,  is  a  happy  assurance 
that  personality  is  not  a  dream.  The  touch  of  warm 
hands  is  a  sudden  proof  that  friendship  is  a  reality. 

Presently  it  begins  to  dawn  upon  us  that  there  is 
something  wonderful  in  the  place  of  our  conjunction, 
and  we  realise  dimly, — very  dimly,  I  am  sure,  and 
yet  with  a  certain  vague  emotion  of  reverence, — 
where  we  are. 

"We  came  yesterday,"  says  the  Lady,  "and  in 
the  afternoon  we  went  to  see  the  House  of  Simon 
the  Tanner,  where  they  say  the  Apostle  Peter 
lodged." 

"Did  it  look  like  the  real  house?" 

"Ah,"  she  answers  smilingly,  "how  do  I  know? 
They  say  there  are  two  of  them.  But  what  do  I  care  ? 
It  is  certain  that  we  are  here.  And  I  think  that  St. 
Peter  was  here  once,  too,  whether  the  house  he  lived 
in  is  standing  yet,  or  not." 

18 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

Yes,  that  is  reasonably  certain;  and  this  is  the 
place  where  he  had  his  strange  vision  of  a  religion 
meant  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  It  is  cer- 
tain, also,  that  this  is  the  port  where  Solomon  landed 
his  beams  of  cedar  from  Lebanon  for  the  building  of 
the  Temple,  and  that  the  Emperor  Vespasian  sacked 
the  town,  and  that  Richard  Lionheart  planted  the 
banner  of  the  crusade  upon  its  citadel.  But  how  far 
away  and  dreamlike  it  all  seems,  on  this  spring 
morning,  when  the  wind  is  tossing  the  fronds  of  the 
palm-trees,  and  the  gleams  of  sunshine  are  flying 
across  the  garden,  and  the  last  clouds  of  the  broken 
thunderstorm  are  racing  westward  through  the  blue 
toward  the  highlands  of  Judea. 

Here  is  our  new  friend,  the  dragoman  George 
Cavalcanty,  known  as  "Telhami,"  the  Bethlehemite, 
standing  beside  us  in  the  shelter  of  the  orange-trees : 
a  trim,  alert  figure,  in  his  belted  suit  of  khaki  and  his 
riding-boots  of  brown  leather. 

"Is  everything  ready  for  the  journey,  George?" 

"Everything  is  prepared,  according  to  the  instruc- 
tions you  sent  from  Avalon.  The  tents  are  pitched  a 

little  beyond  Latrun,  twenty  miles  away.    The  horses 

19 


TRAVELLERS'    JOY 

are  waiting  at  Ramleh.  After  you  have  had  your 
mid-day  breakfast,  we  will  drive  there  in  carriages, 
and  get  into  the  saddle,  and  ride  to  our  own  camp 
before  the  night  falls." 


A   PSALM  OF  THE  DISTANT  ROAD 

Happy  is  the  man  that  seeth  the  face  of  a  friend  in 

a  far  country: 
The  darkness  of  his  heart  is  melted  in  the  rising  of 

an  inward  joy. 

It  is  like  the  sound  of  music  heard  long  ago  and  half 

forgotten: 
It  is  like  the  coming  back  of  birds  to  a  wood  that 

winter  hath  made  bare. 

I  knew  not  the  sweetness  of  the  fountain  till  I  found 

it  flowing  in  the  desert: 
Nor  the  value  of  a  friend  till  the  meeting  in  a  lonely 

land. 

The  multitude  of  mankind  had  bewildered  me  and 

oppressed  me: 

And  I  said  to  God,  Why  hast  thou  made  the  world 
so  wide? 

But  when  my  friend  came  the  wideness  of  the  world 

had  no  more  terror: 
Because  we  were  glad  together  among  men  who  knew 

us  not. 

21 


I  was  slowly  reading  a  book  that   was  written  in 

a  strange  language: 
And   suddenly   I   came  upon  a  page  in  mine  own 

familiar  tongue. 

This  was  the  heart  of  my  friend  that  quietly  under- 
stood me: 

The  open  heart  whose  meaning  was  clear  without  a 
word. 

0  my  God  whose  love  followeth  all  thy  pilgrims 

and  strangers: 

1  praise  thee  for  the  comfort  of  comrades  on  a  distant 

road. 


22 


II 

GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 


"THE  EXCELLENCY  OF  SHARON" 

lOU  understand  that  what  we  had  before  us  in 
this  first  stage  of  our  journey  was  a  very  simple 
proposition.  The  distance  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem 
is  fifty  miles  by  railway  and  forty  miles  by  carriage- 
road.  Thousands  of  pilgrims  and  tourists  travel  it 
every  year;  and  most  of  them  now  go  by  the  train  in 
about  four  hours,  with  advertised  stoppages  of  three 
minutes  at  Lydda,  eight  minutes  at  Ramleh,  ten  min- 
utes at  Sejed,  and  unadvertised  delays  at  the  con- 
venience of  the  engine.  But  we  did  not  wish  to  get  our 
earliest  glimpse  of  Palestine  from  a  car- window,  nor 
to  begin  our  travels  in  a  mechanical  way.  The  first 
taste  of  a  journey  often  flavours  it  to  the  very  end. 
The  old  highroad,  which  is  now  much  less  fre- 
quented than  formerly,  is  very  fair  as  far  as  Ramleh; 
and  beyond  that  it  is  still  navigable  for  vehicles, 
though  somewhat  broken  and  billowy.  Our  plan, 
therefore,  was  to  drive  the  first  ten  miles,  where  the 

25 


GOING    UP    TO    JERUSALEM 

road  was  flat  and  uninteresting,  and  then  ride  the 
rest  of  the  way.  This  would  enable  us  to  avoid  the 
advertised  rapidity  and  the  uncertain  delays  of  the 
railway,  and  bring  us  quietly  through  the  hills, 
about  the  close  of  the  second  day,  to  the  gates  of 
Jerusalem. 

The  two  victorias  rattled  through  the  streets  of 
Jaffa,  past  the  low,  flat-topped  Oriental  houses,  the 
queer  little  open  shops,  the  orange-groves  in  full 
bloom,  the  palm-trees  waving  their  plumes  over  gar- 
den-walls, and  rolled  out  upon  the  broad  highroad 
across  the  fertile,  gently  undulating  Plain  of  Sharon. 
On  each  side  were  the  neat,  well-cultivated  fields  and 
vegetable-gardens  of  the  German  colonists  belonging 
to  the  sect  of  the  Templers.  They  are  a  people  of 
antique  theology  and  modern  agriculture.  Believing 
that  the  real  Christianity  is  to  be  found  in  the  Old 
Testament  rather  than  in  the  New,  they  propose  to 
begin  the  social  and  religious  reformation  of  the  world 
by  a  return  to  the  programme  of  the  Minor  Prophets. 
But  meantime  they  conduct  their  farming  operations 
in  a  very  profitable  way.  Their  grain-fields,  their 
fruit-orchards,  their  vegetable-gardens  are  trim  and 

26 


GOING    UP    TO    JERUSALEM 

orderly,  and  they  make  an  excellent  wine,  which  they 
call  "The  Treasure  of  Zion."  Their  effect  upon  the 
landscape,  however,  is  conventional. 

But  in  spite  of  the  presence  and  prosperity  of  the 
Templers,  the  spirit  of  the  scene  through  which  we 
passed  was  essentially  Oriental.  The  straggling 
hedges  of  enormous  cactus,  the  rows  of  plumy  euca- 
lyptus-trees, the  budding  figs  and  mulberries,  gave 
it  a  semi-tropical  touch  and  along  the  highway  we 
encountered  fragments  of  the  leisurely,  dishevelled, 
dignified  East:  grotesque  camels,  pensive  donkeys 
carrying  incredible  loads,  flocks  of  fat-tailed  sheep 
and  lop-eared  goats,  bronzed  peasants  in  flowing 
garments,  and  white-robed  women  with  veiled  faces. 

Beneath  the  tall  tower  of  the  forty  martyrs  at  Ram- 
leh  (Mohammedan  or  Christian,  their  names  are  for- 
gotten) we  left  the  carriages,  loaded  our  luggage  on 
the  three  pack-mules,  mounted  our  saddle-horses, 
and  rode  on  across  the  plain,  one  of  the  fruitful 
gardens  and  historic  battle-fields  of  the  world.  Here 
the  hosts  of  the  Israelites  and  the  Philistines,  the 
Egyptians  and  the  Romans,  the  Persians  and  the 
Arabs,  the  Crusaders  and  the  Saracens,  have  marched 

27 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

and  contended.  But  as  we  passed  through  the  sun- 
showers  and  rain-showers  of  an  April  afternoon,  all 
was  tranquillity  and  beauty  on  every  side.  The  roll- 
ing fields  were  embroidered  with  innumerable  flow- 
ers. The  narcissus,  the  "rose  of  Sharon,"  had  faded. 
But  the  little  blue  "lilies-of -the- valley"  were  there, 
and  the  pink  and  saffron  mallows,  and  the  yellow 
and  white  daisies,  and  the  violet  and  snow  of  the 
drooping  cyclamen,  and  the  gold  of  the  genesta,  and 
the  orange-red  of  the  pimpernel,  and,  most  beautiful 
of  all,  the  glowing  scarlet  of  the  numberless  anem- 
ones. Wide  acres  of  young  wheat  and  barley  glis- 
tened in  the  light,  as  the  wind-waves  rippled  through 
their  short,  silken  blades.  There  were  few  trees, 
except  now  and  then  an  olive-orchard  or  a  round- 
topped  carob  with  its  withered  pods. 

The  highlands  of  Judea  lay  stretched  out  along 
the  eastern  horizon,  a  line  of  azure  and  amethystine 
heights,  changing  colour  and  seeming  almost  to 
breathe  and  move  as  the  cloud  shadows  fleeted  over 
them,  and  reaching  away  northward  and  southward 
as  far  as  eye  could  see.  Rugged  and  treeless,  save 
for  a  clump  of  oaks  or  terebinths  planted  here  or 

28 


»/• 

'I 


The  Tall  Tower  of  the  Forty  Martyrs  at  Ramleh. 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

there  around  some  Mohammedan  saint's  tomb,  they 
would  have  seemed  forbidding  but  that  their  slopes 
were  clothed  with  the  tender  herbage  of  spring,  their 
outlines  varied  with  deep  valleys  and  blue  gorges, 
and  all  their  mighty  bulwarks  jewelled  right  royally 
with  the  opalescence  of  sunset. 

In  a  hollow  of  the  green  plain  to  the  left  we  could 
see  the  white  houses  and  the  yellow  church  tower  of 
Lydda,  the  supposed  burial-place  of  Saint  George 
of  Cappadocia,  who  killed  the  dragon  and  became 
the  patron  saint  of  England.  On  a  conical  hill  to  the 
right  shone  the  tents  of  the  Scotch  explorer  who  is 
excavating  the  ancient  city  of  Gezer,  which  was  the 
dowry  of  Pharaoh's  daughter  when  she  married 
King  Solomon.  City,  did  I  say  ?  At  least  four  cities 
are  packed  one  upon  another  in  that  grassy  mound, 
the  oldest  going  back  to  the  flint  age;  and  yet  if  you 
should  examine  their  site  and  measure  their  ruins, 
you  would  feel  sure  that  none  of  them  could  ever 
have  amounted  to  anything  more  than  what  we 
should  call  a  poor  little  town. 

It  came  upon  us  gently  but  irresistibly  that  after- 
noon, as  we  rode  easily  across  the  land  of  the  Philis- 

29 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

tines  in  a  few  hours,  that  we  had  never  really  read 
the  Old  Testament  as  it  ought  to  be  read, — as  a  book 
written  in  an  Oriental  atmosphere,  filled  with  the 
glamour,  the  imagery,  the  magniloquence  of  the 
East.  Unconsciously  we  had  been  reading  it  as  if  it 
were  a  collection  of  documents  produced  in  Heidel- 
berg, Germany,  or  in  Boston,  Massachusetts:  pre- 
cise, literal,  scientific. 

We  had  been  imagining  the  Philistines  as  a 
mighty  nation,  and  their  land  as  a  vast  territory 
filled  with  splendid  cities  and  ruled  by  powerful 
monarchs.  We  had  been  trying  to  understand 
and  interpret  the  stories  of  their  conflict  with  Israel 
as  if  they  had  been  written  by  a  Western  war-cor- 
respondent, careful  to  verify  all  his  statistics  and 
meticulous  in  the  exact  description  of  all  his  events. 
This  view  of  things  melted  from  us  with  a  gradual 
surprise  as  we  realised  that  the  more  deeply  we  en- 
tered into  the  poetry,  the  closer  we  should  come  to 
the  truth,  of  the  narrative.  Its  moral  and  religious 
meaning  is  firm  and  steadfast  as  the  mountains 
round  about  Jerusalem;  but  even  as  those  moun- 
tains rose  before  us  glorified,  uplifted,  and  bejewelled 

30 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

by  the  vague  splendours  of  the  sunset,  so  the  form 
of  the  history  was  enlarged  and  its  colours  irradiated 
by  the  figurative  spirit  of  the  East. 

There  at  our  feet,  bathed  in  the  beauty  of  the  even- 
ing air,  lay  the  Valley  of  Aijalon,  where  Joshua  fought 
with  the  "five  kings  of  the  Amorites,"  and  broke 
them  and  chased  them.  The  "kings"  were  head- 
men of  scattered  villages,  chiefs  of  fierce  and  ragged 
tribes.  But  the  fighting  was  hard,  and  as  Joshua  led 
his  wild  clansmen  down  upon  them  from  the  ascent 
of  Beth-horon,  he  feared  the  day  might  be  too  short 
to  win  the  victory.  So  he  cheered  the  hearts  of  his 
men  with  an  old  war-song  from  the  Book  of  Jasher. 

"Sun,  stand  them  still  upon  Gibeon; 

And  them,  moon,  in  the  Valley  of  Aijalon. 

And  the  sun  stood  still,  and  the  moon  stayed, 

Until  the  nation  had  avenged  themselves  of  their  enemies." 

Does  any  one  suppose  that  this  is  intended  to  teach 
us  that  the  sun  moves  and  that  on  this  day  his  course 
was  arrested  ?  Must  we  believe  that  the  whole  solar 
system  was  dislocated  for  the  sake  of  this  battle? 
To  understand  the  story  thus  is  to  misunderstand  its 
vital  spirit.  It  is  poetry,  imagination,  heroism.  By 

31 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

the  new  courage  that  came  into  the  hearts  of  Israel 
with  their  leader's  song,  the  Lord  shortened  the  con- 
flict to  fit  the  day,  and  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise 
saw  the  Valley  of  Aijalon  swept  clean  of  Israel's  foes. 

As  we  passed  through  the  wretched,  mud-built  vil- 
lage of  Latrun  (said  to  be  the  birthplace  of  the  Peni- 
tent Thief),  a  dozen  long-robed  Arabs  were  earnestly 
discussing  some  question  of  municipal  interest  in  the 
grassy  market-place.  They  were  as  grave  as  the 
storks,  in  their  solemn  plumage  of  black  and  white, 
which  were  parading  philosophically  along  the  edge 
of  a  marsh  to  our  right.  A  couple  of  jackals  slunk 
furtively  across  the  road  ahead  of  us  in  the  dusk. 
A  kafila  of  long-necked  camels  undulated  over  the 
plain.  The  shadows  fell  more  heavily  over  cactus- 
hedge  and  olive-orchard  as  we  turned  down  the  hill. 

In  the  valley  night  had  come.  The  large,  trem- 
bling stars  were  strewn  through  the  vault  above  us, 
and  rested  on  the  dim  ridges  of  the  mountains,  and 
shone  reflected  in  the  puddles  of  the  long  road  like  fal- 
len jewels.  The  lights  of  Latrun,  if  it  had  any,  were 
already  out  of  sight  behind  us.  Our  horses  were 
weary  and  began  to  stumble.  Where  was  the  camp  ? 

32 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

Look,  there  is  a  light,  bobbing  along  the  road 
toward  us.  It  is  Youssouf,  our  faithful  major-domo, 
come  out  with  a  lantern  to  meet  us.  A  few  rods  far- 
ther through  the  mud,  and  we  turn  a  corner  beside 
an  acacia  hedge  and  the  ruined  arch  of  an  ancient 
well.  There,  in  a  little  field  of  flowers,  close  to  the 
tiniest  of  brooks,  our  tents  are  waiting  for  us  with 
open  doors.  The  candles  are  burning  on  the  table. 
The  rugs  are  spread  and  the  beds  are  made.  The 
dinner-table  is  laid  for  four,  and  there  is  a  bright 
bunch  of  flowers  in  the  middle  of  it.  We  have  seen 
the  excellency  of  Sharon  and  the  moon  is  shining  for 
us  on  the  Valley  of  Aijalon. 


II 

"THE    STRENGTH    OF    THE    HILLS" 

IT  is  no  hardship  to  rise  early  in  camp.  At  the 
mndows  of  a  house  the  daylight  often  knocks  as  an 
unwelcome  messenger,  rousing  the  sleeper  with  a 
sudden  call.  But  through  the  roof  and  the  sides  of 

a  tent  it  enters  gently  and  irresistibly,  embracing  you 

33 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

with  soft  arms,  laying  rosy  touches  on  your  eyelids; 
and  while  your  dream  fades  you  know  that  you  are 
awake  and  it  is  already  day. 

As  we  lift  the  canvas  curtains  and  come  out  of 
our  pavilions,  the  sun  is  just  topping  the  eastern 
hills,  and  all  the  field  around  us  glittering  with  im- 
mense drops  of  dew.  On  the  top  of  the  ruined  arch 
beside  the  camp  our  Arab  watchman,  hired  from  the 
village  of  Latrun  as  we  passed,  is  still  perched  mo- 
tionless, wrapped  in  his  flowing  rags,  holding  his  long 
gun  across  his  knees. 

"Salam  'aleikum,  ya  ghafir!"  I  say,  and  though 
my  Arabic  is  doubtless  astonishingly  bad,  he  knows 
my  meaning;  for  he  answers  gravely,  "'Aleikum  es- 
salam! — And  with  you  be  peace!" 

It  is  indeed  a  peaceful  day  in  which  our  journey  to 
Jerusalem  is  completed.  Leaving  the  tents  and  im- 
pedimenta in  charge  of  Youssouf  and  Shukari  the 
cook,  and  the  muleteers,  we  are  in  the  saddle  by 
seven  o'clock,  and  riding  into  the  narrow  entrance 
of  the  Wadi  'Ali.  It  is  a  long,  steep  valley  leading 
into  the  heart  of  the  hills.  The  sides  are  ribbed  with 
rocks,  among  which  the  cyclamens  grow  in  profu- 

34 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

sion.  A  few  olives  are  scattered  along  the  bottom 
of  the  vale,  and  at  the  tomb  of  the  Imam '  Ali  there  is 
a  grove  of  large  trees.  At  the  summit  of  the  pass  we 
rest  for  half  an  hour,  to  give  our  horses  a  breathing- 
space,  and  to  refresh  our  eyes  with  the  glorious  view 
westward  over  the  tumbled  country  of  the  Shephelah, 
the  opalescent  Plain  of  Sharon,  the  sand-hills  of  the 
coast,  and  the  broad  blue  of  the  Mediterranean. 
Northward  and  southward  and  eastward  the  rocky 
summits  and  ridges  of  Judea  roll  away. 

Now  we  understand  what  the  Psalmist  means  by 
ascribing  "the  strength  of  the  hills"  to  Jehovah; 
and  a  new  light  comes  into  the  song : 

"As  the  mountains  are  round  about  Jerusalem, 
So  Jehovah  is  round  about  his  people." 

These  natural  walls  and  terraces  of  gray  limestone 
have  the  air  of  antique  fortifications  and  watch- 
towers  of  the  border.  They  are  truly  "munitions  of 
rocks."  Chariots  and  horsemen  could  find  no  field 
for  their  manoeuvres  in  this  broken  and  perpendicular 
country.  Entangled  in  these  deep  and  winding  val- 
leys by  which  they  must  climb  up  from  the  plain,  the 

35 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

invaders  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  light  infantry  of 
the  highlands,  who  would  roll  great  stones  upon  them 
as  they  passed  through  the  narrow  defiles,  and  break 
their  ranks  by  fierce  and  sudden  downward  rushes 
as  they  toiled  panting  up  the  steep  hillsides.  It  was 
this  strength  of  the  hills  that  the  children  of  Israel 
used  for  the  defence  of  Jerusalem,  and  by  this  they 
were  able  to  resist  and  defy  the  Philistines,  whom 
they  could  never  wholly  conquer. 

Yonder  on  the  hillside,  as  we  ride  onward,  we  see 
a  reminder  of  that  old  tribal  warfare  between  the 
people  of  the  highlands  and  the  people  of  the  plains. 
That  gray  village,  perched  upon  a  rocky  ridge  above 
thick  olive-orchards  and  a  deliciously  green  valley, 
is  the  ancient  Kirjath-Jearim,  where  the  Ark  of 
Jehovah  was  hidden  for  twenty  years,  after  the  Phil- 
istines had  sent  back  this  perilous  trophy  of  their 
victory  over  the  sons  of  Eli,  being  terrified  by  the 
pestilence  and  disaster  that  followed  its  possession. 
The  men  of  Beth-shemesh,  to  whom  it  was  first  re- 
turned, were  afraid  to  keep  it,  because  they  also  had 
been  smitten  with  death  when  they  dared  to  peep 
into  this  dreadful  box.  But  the  men  of  Kirjath- 


GOING    UP    TO    JERUSALEM 

Jearim  were  at  once  bolder  and  wiser,  so  they  "came 
and  fetched  up  the  Ark  of  Jehovah,  and  brought  it 
into  the  house  of  Abinadab  in  the  hill,  and  set  apart 
Eleazar,  his  son,  to  keep  the  Ark  of  Jehovah." 

What  strange  vigils  in  that  little  hilltop  cottage 
where  the  young  man  watches  over  this  precious,  dan- 
gerous, gilded  coffer,  while  Saul  is  winning  and  los- 
ing his  kingdom  in  a  turmoil  of  blood  and  sorrow 
and  madness,  forgetful  of  Israel's  covenant  with  the 
Most  High!  At  last  comes  King  David,  from  his 
newly  won  stronghold  of  Zion,  seeking  eagerly  for 
this  lost  symbol  of  the  people's  faith.  "Lo,  we 
heard  of  it  at  Ephratah ;  we  found  it  in  the  field  of  the 
wood."  So  the  gray  stone  cottage  on  the  hilltop  gave 
up  its  sacred  treasure,  and  David  carried  it  away 
with  festal  music  and  dancing.  But  was  Eleazar 
glad,  I  wonder,  or  sorry,  that  his  long  vigil  was 
ended  ? 

To  part  from  a  care  is  sometimes  like  losing  a 
friend. 

I  confess  that  it  is  difficult  to  make  these  ancient 
stories  of  peril  and  adventure,  (or  even  the  modern 
history  of  Abu  Ghosh  the  robber-chief  of  this  village 

37 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

a  hundred  years  ago),  seem  real  to  us  to-day.  Every- 
thing around  us  is  so  safe  and  tranquil,  and,  in  spite 
of  its  novelty,  so  familiar.  The  road  descends  steeply 
with  long  curves  and  windings  into  the  Wadi  Beit 
Hanina.  We  meet  and  greet  many  travellers,  on 
horseback,  in  carriages  and  afoot,  natives  and  pil- 
grims, German  colonists,  French  priests,  Italian 
monks,  English  tourists  and  explorers.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant game  to  guess  from  an  approaching  pilgrim's 
looks  whether  you  should  salute  him  with  "Guten 
Morgen"  or  "Buori9  Giorno"  or  "  Bon  jour,  m'sieur." 
The  country  people  answer  your  salutation  with  a 
pretty  phrase:  "Neharak  said  umubarak — May 
your  day  be  happy  and  blessed." 

At  Kaloniyeh,  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  there  is 
a  prosperous  settlement  of  German  Jews;  and  the 
gardens  and  orchards  are  flourishing.  There  is  also 
a  little  wayside  inn,  a  rude  stone  building,  with  a  ter- 
race around  it;  and  there,  with  apricots  and  plums 
blossoming  beside  us,  we  eat  our  lunch  al  fresco,  and 
watch  our  long  pack-train,  with  the  camp  and  bag- 
gage, come  winding  down  the  hill  and  go  tinkling 
past  us  toward  Jerusalem. 

38 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

The  place  is  very  friendly;  we  are  in  no  haste  to 
leave  it.  A  few  miles  to  the  southward,  sheltered  in 
the  lap  of  a  rounding  hill,  we  can  see  the  tall  cypress- 
trees  and  quiet  gardens  of  'Ain  Karim,  the  village 
where  John  the  Baptist  was  born.  It  has  a  singular 
air  of  attraction,  seen  from  a  distance,  and  one  of  the 
sweetest  stories  in  the  world  is  associated  with  it. 
For  it  was  there  that  the  young  bride  Mary  visited 
her  older  cousin  Elizabeth, — you  remember  the  ex- 
quisite picture  of  the  "  Visitation  "  by  Albertinelli  in 
the  Uffizi  at  Florence, — and  the  joy  of  coming 
motherhood  in  these  two  women's  hearts  spoke  from 
each  to  each  like  a  bell  and  its  echo.  Would  the 
birth  of  Jesus,  the  character  of  Jesus,  have  been 
possible  unless  there  had  been  the  virginal  and  ex- 
pectant soul  of  such  a  woman  as  Mary,  ready  to  wel- 
come His  coming  with  her  song?  "My  soul  doth 
magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath  rejoiced  in 
God  my  Saviour."  Does  not  the  advent  of  a  higher 
manhood  always  wait  for  the  hope  and  longing  of  a 
nobler  womanhood  ? 

The  chiming  of  the  bells  of  St.  John  floats  faintly 
and  silverly  across  the  valley  as  we  leave  the  shelter 

39 


GOING    UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

of  the  wayside  rest-house  and  mount  for  the  last  stage 
of  our  upward  journey.  The  road  ascends  steeply. 
Nestled  in  the  ravine  to  our  left  is  the  grizzled  and 
dilapidated  village  of  Lifta,  a  town  with  an  evil 
reputation. 

"These  people  sold  all  their  land,"  says  George 
the  dragoman,  "twenty  years  ago,  sold  all  the  fields, 
gardens,  olive-groves.  Now  they  are  dirty  and  lazy 
in  that  village, — all  thieves!" 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the 
first  houses  of  Jerusalem  are  beginning  to  appear. 
They  are  houses  of  mercy,  it  seems :  one  an  asylum 
for  the  insane,  the  other  a  home  for  the  aged  poor. 
Passing  them,  we  come  upon  schools  and  hospital 
buildings  and  other  evidences  of  the  charity  of  the 
Rothschilds  toward  their  own  people.  All  around 
us  are  villas  and  consulates,  and  rows  of  freshly  built 
houses  for  Jewish  colonists. 

This  is  not  at  all  the  way  that  we  had  imagined  to 
ourselves  the  first  sight  of  the  Holy  City.  All  here  is 
half-European,  unromantic,  not  very  picturesque. 
It  may  not  be  "the  New  Jerusalem,"  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly a  modern  Jerusalem.  Here,  in  these  com- 

40 


GOING    UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

fortably  commonplace  dwellings,  is  almost  half  the 
present  population  of  the  city;  and  rows  of  new 
houses  are  rising  on  every  side. 

But  look  down  the  southward-sloping  road.  There 
is  the  sight  that  you  have  imagined  and  longed  to  see : 
the  brown  battlements,  the  white-washed  houses,  the 
flat  roofs,  the  slender  minarets,  the  many-coloured 
domes  of  the  ancient  city  of  David,  and  Solomon, 
and  Hezekiah,  and  Herod,  and  Omar,  and  Godfrey, 
and  Saladin, — but  never  of  Christ.  That  great  black 
dome  is  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  The  one 
beyond  it  is  the  Mosque  of  Omar.  Those  golden 
bulbs  and  pinnacles  beyond  the  city  are  the  Greek 
Church  of  Saint  Mary  Magdalen  on  the  side  of  the 
Mount  of  Olives;  and  on  the  top  of  the  lofty  ridge 
rises  the  great  pointed  tower  of  the  Russians  from 
which  a  huge  bell  booms  out  a  deep-toned  note  of 
welcome. 

On  every  side  we  see  the  hospices  and  convents 
and  churches  and  palaces  of  the  different  sects  of 
Christendom.  The  streets  are  full  of  people  and 
carriages  and  beasts  of  burden.  The  dust  rises 
around  us.  We  are  tired  with  the  trab,  trab,  trab  of 

41 


GOING   UP   TO    JERUSALEM 

our  horses'  feet  upon  the  hard  highroad.  Let  us  not 
go  into  the  confusion  of  the  city,  but  ride  quietly  down 
to  the  left  into  a  great  olive-grove,  outside  the  Da- 
mascus Gate. 

Here  our  white  tents  are  pitched  among  the  trees, 
with  the  dear  flag  of  our  home  flying  over  them. 
Here  we  shall  find  leisure  and  peace  to  unite  our 
hearts,  and  bring  our  thoughts  into  tranquil  har- 
mony, before  we  go  into  the  bewildering  city.  Here 
the  big  stars  will  look  kindly  down  upon  us  through 
the  silvery  leaves,  and  the  sounds  of  human  turmoil 
and  contention  will  not  trouble  us.  The  distant 
booming  of  the  bell  on  the  Mount  of  Olives  will 
mark  the  night-hours  for  us,  and  the  long-drawn 
plaintive  call  of  the  muezzin  from  the  minaret  of  the 
little  mosque  at  the  edge  of  the  grove  will  wake  us 
to  the  sunrise. 


42 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  WELCOME  TENT 

This  is  the  thanksgiving  of  the  weary: 
The  song  of  him  that  is  ready  to  rest. 

It  is  good  to  be  glad  when  the  day  is  declining} 
And  the  setting  of  the  sun  is  like  a  word  of  peace. 

The  stars  look  kindly  on  the  close  of  a  journey: 
The  tent  says  welcome  when  the  day's  march  is  done. 

For  now  is  the  time  of  the  laying  down  of  burdens: 
And  the  cool  hour  cometh  to  them  that  have  borne 
the  heat. 

I  have  rejoiced  greatly  in  labour  and  adventure: 
My  heart  hath  been  enlarged  in  the  spending  of  my 
strength. 

Now  it  is  all  gone  yet  I  am  not  impoverished: 
For  thus  only  may  I  inherit  the  treasure  of  repose. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  teacheth  my  hands  to  un- 
close and  my  fingers  to  loosen: 

He  also  giveth  comfort  to  the  feet  that  are  washed 
from  the  dust  of  the  way. 
43 


Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  maketh  my  meat  at  nightfall 

savoury: 
And  filleth  my  evening  cup  with  the  wine  of  good 

clieer. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord  that  maketh   me   happy   to  be 

quiet: 
Even  as  a  child  that  cometh  softly  to  his  mothers 

lap. 

O  God  thou  faintest  not  neither  is  thy  strength  worn 

away  with  labour: 
But  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  weary  that  we  may  obtain 

thy  gift  of  rest. 


44 


Ill 

THE    GATES   OF   ZION 


A  CITY  THAT  IS  SET  ON  A  HILL 


of  the  medley  of  our  first  impressions  of  Je- 
rusalem one  fact  emerges  like  an  island  from  the  sea  : 
it  is  a  city  that  is  lifted  up.  No  river;  no  harbour; 
no  encircling  groves  and  gardens;  a  site  so  lonely 
and  so  lofty  that  it  breathes  the  very  spirit  of  isola- 
tion and  proud  self-reliance. 

"  Beautiful  in  elevation,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth 
Is  Mount  Zion,  on  the  sides  of  the  north 
The  city  of  the  great  King." 

Thus  sang  the  Hebrew  poet;  and  his  song,  like  all 
true  poetry,  has  the  accuracy  of  the  clearest  vision. 
For  this  is  precisely  the  one  beauty  that  crowns 
Jerusalem:  the  beauty  of  a  high  place  and  all  that 
belongs  to  it:  clear  sky,  refreshing  air,  a  fine  out- 
look, and  that  indefinable  sense  of  exultation  that 
comes  into  the  heart  of  man  when  he  climbs  a  little 
nearer  to  the  stars. 

Twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
47 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

sea  is  not  a  great  height;  but  I  can  think  of  no  other 
ancient  and  world-famous  city  that  stands  as  high. 
Along  the  mountainous  plateau  of  Judea,  between 
the  sea-coast  plain  of  Philistia  and  the  sunken  valley 
of  the  Jordan,  there  is  a  line  of  sacred  sites, — Beer- 
sheba,  Hebron,  Bethlehem,  Bethel,  Shiloh,  Shechem. 
Each  of  them  marks  the  place  where  a  town  grew  up 
around  an  altar.  The  central  link  in  this  chain  of 
shrine-cities  is  Jerusalem.  Her  form  and  outline, 
her  relation  to  the  landscape  and  to  the  land,  are 
unchanged  from  the  days  of  her  greatest  glory.  The 
splendours  of  her  Temple  and  her  palaces,  the  glitter 
of  her  armies,  the  rich  colour  and  glow  of  her  abound- 
ing wealth,  have  vanished.  But  though  her  gar- 
ments are  frayed  and  weather-worn,  though  she  is  an 
impoverished  and  dusty  queen,  she  still  keeps  her 
proud  position  and  bearing;  and  as  you  approach 
her  by  the  ancient  road  along  the  ridges  of  Judea 
you  see  substantially  what  Sennacherib,  and  Nebu- 
chadnezzar, and  the  Roman  Titus  must  have  seen. 

"The  sides  of  the  north"  slope  gently  down  to  the 
huge  gray  wall  of  the  city,  with  its  many  towers  and 
gates.  Within  those  bulwarks,  which  are  thirty- 

48 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

eight  feet  high  and  two  and  a  half  miles  in  circum- 
ference, "  Jerusalem  is  builded  as  a  city  that  is  com- 
pact together,"  covering  with  her  huddled  houses 
and  crooked,  narrow  streets,  the  two  or  three  rounded 
hills  and  shallow  depressions  in  which  the  northern 
plateau  terminates.  South  and  east  and  west,  the 
valley  of  the  Brook  Kidron  and  the  Valley  of  Himmon 
surround  the  city  wall  with  a  dry  moat  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  deep. 

Imagine  the  knuckles  of  a  clenched  fist,  extended 
toward  the  south :  that  is  the  site  of  Jerusalem,  im- 
pregnable, (at  least  in  ancient  warfare),  from  all  sides 
except  the  north,  where  the  wrist  joins  it  to  the  higher 
tableland.  This  northern  approach,  open  to  Assyria, 
and  Babylon,  and  Damascus,  and  Persia,  and  Greece, 
and  Rome,  has  always  been  the  weak  point  of  Je- 
rusalem. She  was  no  unassailable  fortress  of  natural 
strength,  but  a  city  lifted  up,  a  lofty  shrine,  whose 
refuge  and  salvation  were  in  Jehovah, — in  the  faith, 
the  loyalty,  the  courage  which  flowed  into  the  heart 
of  her  people  from  their  religion.  When  these  failed, 
she  fell. 

Jerusalem  is  no  longer,  and  never  again  will  be, 
49 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

the  capital  of  an  earthly  kingdom.  But  she  is  still 
one  of  the  high  places  of  the  world,  exalted  in  the 
imagination  and  the  memory  of  Jews  and  Christians 
and  Mohammedans,  a  metropolis  of  infinite  human 
hopes  and  longings  and  devotions.  Hither  come  the 
innumerable  companies  of  foot-weary  pilgrims, 
climbing  the  steep  roads  from  the  sea-coast,  from 
the  Jordan,  from  Bethlehem, — pilgrims  who  seek 
the  place  of  the  Crucifixion,  pilgrims  who  would 
weep  beside  the  walls  of  their  vanished  Temple,  pil- 
grims who  desire  to  pray  where  Mohammed  prayed. 
Century  after  century  these  human  throngs  have 
assembled  from  far  countries  and  toiled  upward  to 
this  open,  lofty  plateau,  where  the  ancient  city  rests 
upon  the  top  of  the  closed  hand,  and  where  the  ever- 
changing  winds  from  the  desert  and  the  sea  sweep 
and  shift  over  the  rocky  hilltops,  the  mute,  gray 
battlements,  and  the  domes  crowned  with  the  cross, 
the  crescent,  and  the  star. 

"The  wind  bloweth  where  it  will,  and  thou  hearest 
the  voice  thereof,  but  knowest  not  whence  it  cometh, 
nor  whither  it  goeth;  so  is  every  one  that  is  born  of 
the  Spirit." 

50 


THE    GATES    OF    ZION 

The  mystery  of  the  heart  of  mankind,  the  spiritual 
airs  that  breathe  through  it,  the  desires  and  aspira- 
tions that  impel  men  in  their  journeyings,  the  com- 
mon hopes  that  bind  them  together  hi  companies, 
the  fears  and  hatreds  that  array  them  in  warring 
hosts, — there  is  no  place  in  the  world  to-day  where 
you  can  feel  all  this  so  deeply,  so  inevitably,  so  over- 
whelmingly, as  at  the  Gates  of  Zion. 

It  is  a  feeling  of  confusion,  at  first:  a  bewildering 
sense  of  something  vast  and  old  and  secret,  speaking 
many  tongues,  taking  many  forms,  yet  never  fully 
revealing  its  source  and  its  meaning.  The  Jews, 
Mohammedans,  and  Christians  who  flock  to  those 
gates  are  alike  in  their  sincerity,  in  their  devotion,  in 
the  spirit  of  sacrifice  that  leads  them  on  their  pil- 
grimage. Among  them  all  there  are  hypocrites  and 
bigots,  doubtless,  but  there  are  also  earnest  and  de- 
vout souls,  seeking  something  that  is  higher  than 
themselves,  "a  city  set  upon  a  hill."  Why  do  they 
not  understand  one  another?  Why  do  they  fight 
and  curse  one  another?  Do  they  not  all  come  to 
humble  themselves,  to  pray,  to  seek  the  light  ? 

Dark  walls  that  embrace  so  many  tear-stained, 
51 


THE    GATES    OF    ZION 

blood-stained,  holy  and  dishonoured  shrines!  And 
you,  narrow  and  gloomy  gates,  through  whose  portals 
so  many  myriads  of  mankind  have  passed  with  their 
swords,  their  staves,  their  burdens  and  their  palm- 
branches!  What  songs  of  triumph  you  have  heard, 
what  yells  of  battle-rage,  what  meanings  of  despair, 
what  murmurs  of  hopes  and  gratitude,  what  cries  of 
anguish,  what  bursts  of  careless,  happy  laughter, — 
all  borne  upon  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  will 
across  these  bare  and  rugged  heights.  We  will  not 
seek  to  enter  yet  into  the  mysteries  that  you  hide. 
We  will  tarry  here  for  a  while  in  the  open  sunlight, 
where  the  cool  breeze  of  April  stirs  the  olive-groves 
outside  the  Damascus  Gate.  We  will  tranquillize 
our  thoughts, — perhaps  we  may  even  find  them 
growing  clearer  and  surer, — among  the  simple  cares 
and  pleasures  that  belong  to  the  life  of  every  day; 
the  life  which  must  have  food  when  it  is  hungry, 
and  rest  when  it  is  weary,  and  a  shelter  from  the 
storm  and  the  night;  the  life  of  those  who  are  all 
strangers  and  sojourners  upon  the  earth,  and  whose 
richest  houses  and  strongest  cities  are,  after  all,  but 
a  little  longer-lasting  tents  and  camps. 

52 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

II 
THE    CAMP    IN    THE    OLIVE-GROVE 

THE  place  of  our  encampment  is  peaceful  and 
friendly,  without  being  remote  or  secluded.  The 
grove  is  large  and  free  from  all  undergrowth:  the 
trunks  of  the  ancient  olive-trees  are  gnarled  and 
massive,  the  foliage  soft  and  tremulous.  The  corner 
that  George  has  chosen  for  us  is  raised  above  the 
road  by  a  kind  of  terrace,  so  that  it  is  not  too  easily 
accessible  to  the  curious  passer-by.  Across  the  road 
we  see  a  gray  stone  wall,  and  above  it  the  roof  of  the 
Anglican  Bishop's  house,  and  the  schools,  from 
which  a  sound  of  shrill  young  voices  shouting  in  play 
or  chanting  in  unison  rises  at  intervals  through  the 
day.  The  ground  on  which  we  stand  is  slightly  fur- 
rowed with  the  little  ridges  of  last  year's  ploughing: 
but  it  has  not  yet  been  broken  this  spring,  and  it  is 
covered  with  millions  of  infinitesimal  flowers,  blue 
and  purple  and  yellow  and  white,  like  tiny  pansies 
wild. 

The  four  tents,  each  circular  and  about  fifteen  feet 
53 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

in  diameter,  are  arranged  in  a  crescent.  The  one 
nearest  to  the  road  is  for  the  kitchen  and  service; 
there  Shukari,  our  Maronite  chef,  in  his  white  cap 
and  apron,  turns  out  an  admirable  six-course  dinner 
on  a  portable  charcoal  range  not  three  feet  square. 
Around  the  door  of  this  tent  there  is  much  coming 
and  going:  edibles  of  all  kinds  are  brought  for  sale; 
visitors  squat  in  sociable  conversation;  curious  chil- 
dren hang  about,  watching  the  proceedings,  or  wait- 
ing for  the  favours  which  a  good  cook  can  bestow. 
The  next  tent  is  the  dining-room;  the  huge  wooden 
chests  of  the  canteen,  full  of  glass  and  china  and 
table-linen  and  new  Britannia-ware,  which  shines 
like  silver,  are  placed  one  on  each  side  of  the  en- 
trance; behind  the  central  tent-pole  stands  the  din- 
ing-table,  with  two  chairs  at  the  back  and  one  at  each 
end,  so  that  we  can  all  enjoy  the  view  through  the 
open  door.  The  tent  is  lofty  and  lined  with  many- 
coloured  cotton  cloth,  arranged  in  elaborate  patterns, 
scarlet  and  green  and  yellow  and  blue.  When  the 
four  candles  are  lighted  on  the  well-spread  table,  and 
Youssouf  the  Greek,  in  his  embroidered  jacket  and 
baggy  blue  breeches,  comes  in  to  serve  the  dinner,  it 

54 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

is  quite  an  Oriental  scene.  His  assistant,  Little 
Youssouf ,  the  Copt,  squats  outside  of  the  tent,  at  one 
side  of  the  door,  to  wash  up  the  dishes  and  polish  the 
Britannia-ware. 

The  two  other  tents  are  of  the  same  pattern  and 
the  same  gaudy  colours  within :  each  of  them  con- 
tains two  little  iron  bedsteads,  two  Turkish  rugs, 
two  washstands,  one  dressing-table,  and  such  bag- 
gage as  we  had  imagined  necessary  for  our  comfort, 
piled  around  the  tent-pole, — this  by  way  of  pre- 
caution, lest  some  misguided  hand  should  be  tempted 
to  slip  under  the  canvas  at  night  and  abstract  an  un- 
considered  trifle  lying  near  the  edge  of  the  tent. 

Of  our  own  men  I  must  say  that  we  never  had  a 
suspicion,  either  of  their  honesty  or  of  their  good- 
humour.  Not  only  the  four  who  had  most  imme- 
diately to  do  with  us,  but  also  the  two  chief  muleteers, 
Mohammed  'AH  and  Moiisa,  and  the  songful  boy, 
Mohammed  el  Nasan,  who  warbled  an  interminable 
Arabian  ditty  all  day  long,  and  Faris  and  the  two 
other  assistants,  were  models  of  fidelity  and  willing 
service.  They  did  not  quarrel  (except  once,  over  the 
division  of  the  mule-loads,  in  the  mountains  of  Gil- 

55 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

ead);  they  got  us  into  no  difficulties  and  subjected 
us  to  no  blackmail  from  humbugging  Bedouin  chiefs. 
They  are  of  a  picturesque  motley  in  costume  and  of 
a  bewildering  variety  in  creed — Anglican,  Catholic, 
Coptic,  Maronite,  Greek,  Mohammedan,  and  one  of 
whom  the  others  say  that  "he  belongs  to  no  religion, 
but  sings  beautiful  Persian  songs."  Yet,  so  far  as 
we  are  concerned,  they  all  do  the  things  they  ought 
to  do  and  leave  undone  the  things  they  ought  not  to 
do,  and  their  way  with  us  is  peace.  Much  of  this, 
no  doubt,  is  due  to  the  wisdom,  tact,  and  firmness  of 
George  the  Bethlehemite,  the  best  of  dragomans. 

We  have  many  visitors  at  the  camp,  but  none  un- 
welcome. The  American  Consul,  a  genial  scholar 
who  knows  Palestine  by  heart  and  has  made  valua- 
ble contributions  to  the  archaeology  of  Jerusalem, 
comes  with  his  wife  to  dine  with  us  in  the  open  air. 
George's  gentle  wife  and  his  two  bright  little  boys, 
Howard  and  Robert,  are  with  us  often.  Mission- 
aries come  to  tell  us  of  their  labours  and  trials.  An 
Arab  hunter,  with  his  long  flintlock  musket,  brings 
us  beautiful  gray  partridges  which  he  has  shot  among 
the  near-by  hills.  The  stable-master  comes  day 

56 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

after  day  with  strings  of  horses  galloping  through  the 
grove;  for  our  first  mounts  were  not  to  our  liking, 
and  we  are  determined  not  to  start  on  our  longer 
ride  until  we  have  found  steeds  that  suit  us.  Peas- 
ants from  the  country  round  about  bring  all  sorts  of 
things  to  sell — vegetables,  and  lambs,  and  pigeons, 
and  old  coins,  and  embroidered  caps. 

There  are  two  men  ploughing  in  a  vineyard  be- 
hind the  camp,  beyond  the  edge  of  the  grove.  The 
plough  is  a  crooked  stick  of  wood  which  scratches  the 
surface  of  the  earth.  The  vines  are  lying  flat  on  the 
ground,  still  leafless,  closely  pruned:  they  look  like 
big  black  snakes. 

Women  of  the  city,  dressed  in  black  and  blue  silks, 
with  black  mantles  over  their  heads,  come  out  in  the 
afternoon  to  picnic  among  the  trees.  They  sit  in 
little  circles  on  the  grass,  smoking  cigarettes  and  eat- 
ing sweetmeats.  If  they  see  us  looking  at  them  they 
draw  the  corners  of  their  mantles  across  the  lower 
part  of  their  faces;  but  when  they  think  themselves 
unobserved  they  drop  their  veils  and  regard  us  curi- 
ously with  lustrous  brown  eyes. 

One  morning  a  procession  of  rustic  women  and 
57 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

girls,  singing  with  shrill  voices,  pass  the  camp  on 
their  way  to  the  city  to  buy  the  bride's  clothes  for  a 
wedding.  At  nightfall  they  return  singing  yet  more 
loudly,  and  accompanied  by  men  and  boys  firing 
guns  into  the  air  and  shouting. 

Another  day  a  crowd  of  villagers  go  by.  Their  old 
Sheikh  rides  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  his  white-and* 
gold  turban,  his  long  gray  beard,  his  flowing  robes  of 
rich  silk.  He  is  mounted  on  a  splendid  white  Arab 
horse,  with  arched  neck  and  flaunting  tail;  and  a 
beautiful,  gaily  dressed  little  boy  rides  behind  him 
with  both  arms  clasped  around  the  old  man's  waist. 
They  are  going  up  to  the  city  for  the  Mohammedan 
rite  of  circumcision. 

Later  in  the  day  a  Jewish  funeral  comes  hurrying 
through  the  grove:  some  twenty  or  thirty  men  in 
flat  caps  trimmed  with  fur  and  gabardines  of  cotton 
velvet,  purple,  or  yellow,  or  pink,  chanting  psalms 
as  they  march,  with  the  body  of  the  dead  man 
wrapped  in  linen  cloth  and  carried  on  a  rude  bier  on 
their  shoulders.  They  seem  in  haste,  (because  the 
hour  is  late  and  the  burial  must  be  made  before  sun- 
set), perhaps  a  little  indifferent,  or  almost  joyful. 

58 


Certainly  there  is  no  sign  of  grief  in  their  looks  or 
their  voices;  for  among  them  it  is  counted  a  fortu- 
nate thing  to  die  in  the  Holy  City  and  to  be  buried 
on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 
where  Gabriel  is  to  blow  his  trumpet  for  the  resur- 
rection. 

Ill 

IN  THE  STREETS  OF  JERUSALEM 

OUTSIDE  the  gates  we  ride,  for  the  roads  which 
encircle  the  city  wall  and  lead  off  to  the  north  and 
south  and  east  and  west,  are  fairly  broad  and  smooth. 
But  within  the  gates  we  walk,  for  the  streets  are  nar- 
row, steep  and  slippery,  and  to  attempt  them  on 
horseback  is  to  travel  with  an  anxious  mind. 

Through  the  Jaffa  Gate,  indeed,  you  may  easily 
ride,  or  even  drive  in  your  carriage :  not  through  the 
gateway  itself,  which  is  a  close  and  crooked  alley, 
but  through  the  great  gap  in  the  wall  beside  it,  made 
for  the  German  Emperor  to  pass  through  at  the  time 
of  his  famous  imperial  scouting-expedition  in  Syria 
in  1898.  Thus  following  the  track  of  the  great  Wil- 

59 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

liam  you  come  to  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  New 
Hotel,  among  curiosity-shops  and  tourist-agencies, 
where  a  multitude  of  bootblacks  assure  you  that  you 
need  "a  shine,"  and  valets  de  place  press  their  ser- 
vices upon  you,  and  ingratiating  young  merchants 
try  to  allure  you  into  their  establishments  to  pur- 
chase photographs  or  embroidered  scarves  or  olive- 
wood  souvenirs  of  the  Holy  Land. 

Come  over  to  Cook's  office,  where  we  get  our  let- 
ters, and  stand  for  a  while  on  the  little  terrace  with 
the  iron  railing,  looking  at  the  motley  crowd  which 
fills  the  place  in  front  of  the  citadel.  Groups  of  blue- 
robed  peasant  women  sit  on  the  curbstone,  selling 
firewood  and  grass  and  vegetables.  Their  faces  are 
bare  and  brown,  wrinkled  with  the  sun  and  the  wind. 
Turkish  soldiers  in  dark-green  uniform,  Greek  priests 
in  black  robes  and  stove-pipe  hats,  Bedouins  in  flow- 
ing cloaks  of  brown  and  white,  pale-faced  Jews  with 
velvet  gabardines  and  curly  ear-locks,  Moslem 
women  in  many-coloured  silken  garments  and  half- 
transparent  veils,  British  tourists  with  cork  helmets 
and  white  umbrellas,  camels,  donkeys,  goats,  and 
sheep,  jostle  together  in  picturesque  confusion. 

60 


A  Street  in  Jerusalem. 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

There  is  a  water-carrier  with  his  shiny,  dripping, 
bulbous  goat-skin  on  his  shoulders.  There  is  an 
Arab  of  the  wilderness  with  a  young  gazelle  in  his 
arms. 

Now  let  us  go  down  the  greasy,  gliddery  steps  of 
David  Street,  between  the  diminutive  dusky  shops 
with  open  fronts  where  all  kinds  of  queer  things  to 
eat  and  to  wear  are  sold,  and  all  sorts  of  craftsmen 
are  at  work  making  shoes,  and  tin  pans,  and  copper 
pots,  and  wooden  seats,  and  little  tables,  and  clothes 
of  strange  pattern.  A  turn  to  the  left  brings  us  into 
Christian  Street  and  the  New  Bazaar  of  the  Greeks, 
with  its  modern  stores. 

A  turn  to  the  right  and  a  long  descent  under  dark 
archways  and  through  dirty,  shadowy  alleys  brings 
us  to  the  Place  of  Lamentations,  beside  the  ancient 
foundation  wall  of  the  Temple,  where  the  Jews  come 
in  the  afternoon  of  Fridays  and  festival-days  to  lean 
their  heads  against  the  huge  stones  and  murmur  forth 
their  wailings  over  the  downfall  of  Jerusalem.  "For 
the  majesty  that  is  departed,"  cries  the  leader,  and 
the  others  answer:  "We  sit  in  solitude  and  mourn." 
"We  pray  Thee  have  mercy  on  Zion, "cries  theleader, 

61 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

and  the  others  answer:  "Gather  the  children  of  Je- 
rusalem." With  most  of  them  it  seems  a  perfunc- 
tory mourning;  but  there  are  two  or  three  old  men 
with  the  tears  running  down  their  faces  as  they  kiss 
the  smooth-worn  stones. 

We  enter  convents  and  churches,  mosques  and 
tombs.  We  trace  the  course  of  the  traditional  Via 
Dolorosa,  and  try  to  reconstruct  in  our  imagination 
the  probable  path  of  that  grievous  journey  from  the 
judgment-hall  of  injustice  to  the  Calvary  of  cruelty — 
a  path  which  now  lies  buried  far  below  the  present 
level  of  the  city. 

One  impression  deepens  in  my  mind  with  every 
hour:  this  was  never  Christ's  city.  The  confusion, 
the  shallow  curiosity,  the  self-interest,  the  clashing 
prejudices,  the  inaccessibility  of  the  idle  and  busy 
multitudes  were  the  same  in  His  day  that  they  are 
now.  It  was  not  here  that  Jesus  found  the  men  and 
women  who  believed  in  Him  and  loved  Him,  but  in 
the  quiet  villages,  among  the  green  fields,  by  the 
peaceful  lake-shores.  And  it  is  not  here  that  we 
shall  find  the  clearest  traces,  the  most  intimate  vi- 
sions of  Him,  but  away  in  the  big  out-of-doors,  where 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

the  sky  opens  free  above  us,  and  the  landscapes  roll 
away  to  far  horizons. 

As  we  loiter  about  the  city,  now  alone,  now  under 
the  discreet  and  unhampering  escort  of  the  Bethle- 
hemite;  watching  the  Mussulmans  at  their  dinner 
in  some  dingy  little  restaurant,  where  kitchen,  store- 
room and  banquet-hall  are  all  in  the  same  apart- 
ment, level  and  open  to  the  street;  pausing  to  bar- 
gain with  an  impassive  Arab  for  a  leather  belt  or 
with  an  ingratiating  Greek  for  a  string  of  amber 
beads ;  looking  in  through  the  unshuttered  windows 
of  the  Jewish  houses  where  the  families  are  gathered 
in  festal  array  for  the  household  rites  of  Passover 
week;  turning  over  the  chaplets,  and  rosaries,  and 
anklets,  and  bracelets  of  coloured  glass  and  mother- 
of-pearl,  and  variegated  stones,  and  curious  beans 
and  seed-pods  in  the  baskets  of  the  street-vendors 
around  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre;  step- 
ping back  into  an  archway  to  avoid  a  bag-footed 
camel,  or  a  gaily  caparisoned  horse,  or  a  heavy- 
laden  donkey  passing  through  a  narrow  street;  ex- 
changing a  smile  and  an  unintelligible  friendly  jest 
with  a  sweet-faced,  careless  child;  listening  to  long 

63 


THE    GATES    OF   ZION 

disputes  between  buyers  and  sellers  in  that  resound- 
ing Arab  tongue  which  seems  full  of  tragic  indigna- 
tion and  wrath,  while  the  eyes  of  the  handsome 
brown  Bedouins  who  use  it  remain  unsearchable 
in  their  Oriental  languor  and  pride;  Jerusalem  be- 
comes to  us  more  and  more  a  symbol  and  epitome 
of  that  which  is  changeless  and  transient,  capricious 
and  inevitable,  necessary  and  insignificant,  interest- 
ing and  unsatisfying,  in  the  unfinished  tragi-comedy 
of  human  life.  There  are  times  when  it  fascinates  us 
with  its  whirling  charm.  There  are  other  times  when 
we  are  glad  to  ride  away  from  it,  to  seek  communion 
with  the  great  spirit  of  some  antique  prophet,  or  to 
find  the  consoling  presence  of  Him  who  spake  the 
words  of  the  eternal  life. 


64 


A  PSALM  OF  GREAT  CITIES 

How  wonderful  are  the  cities  that  man  hath  builded: 
Their  walls  are  compacted  of  heavy  stones, 
And  their  lofty  towers  rise  above  the  tree-tops. 

Rome,  Jerusalem,  Cairo,  Damascus, — 
Venice,  Constantinople,  Moscow,  Pekin, — 
London,  New  York,  Berlin,  Paris,  Vienna, — 

These  are  the  names  of  mighty  enchantments: 

They  have  called  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

They  have  secretly  summoned  an  host  of  servants. 

They  shine  from  far  sitting  beside  great  waters:   • 
They  are  proudly  enthroned  upon  high  hills, 
They  spread  out  their  splendour  along  the  rivers. 

Yet  are  they  all  the  work  of  small  patient  fingers: 

Their  strength  is  in  the  hand  of  man, 

He  hath  woven  his  flesh  and  blood  into  theif  glory. 

The  cities  are  scattered  over  the  world  like  ant-hiUs: 
Every  one  of  them  is  full  of  trouble  and  toil, 
And  their  makers  run  to  and  fro  within  them. 

65 


Abundance  of  riches  is  laid  up  in  their  store-houses: 

Yet  they  are  tormented  with  the  fear  of  want, 

The  cry  of  the  poor  in  their  streets  is  exceeding  bitter. 

Their  inhabitants  are  driven  by  blind  perturbations: 

They  whirl  sadly  in  the  fever  of  haste, 

Seeking  they  know  not  what,  they  pursue  it  fiercely. 

The  air  is  heavy-laden  with  their  breathing: 
The  sound  of  their  coming  and  going  is  never  still, 
Even  in  the  night  I  hear  them  whispering  and 
crying. 

Beside  every  ant-hill  I  behold  a  monster  crouching: 

This  is  the  ant-lion  Death, 

He  thrusteth  forth  his  tongue  and  the  people  perish. 

O  God  of  wisdom  thou  hast  made  the  country: 
Why  hast  thou  suffered  man  to  make  the  town  ? 

Then  God  answered,  Surely  I  am  the  maker  of  man: 
And  in  the  heart  of  man  I  have  set  the  city. 


IV 

MIZPAH  AND   THE   MOUNT   OF 
OLIVES 


THE     JUDGMENT-SEAT    OF    SAMUEL 

M.IZPAH  of  Benjamin  stands  to  the  northwest :  the 
sharpest  peak  in  the  Judean  range,  crowned  with 
a  ragged,  dusty  village  and  a  small  mosque.  We 
rode  to  it  one  morning  over  the  steepest,  stoniest 
bridle-paths  that  we  had  ever  seen.  The  country 
was  bleak  and  rocky,  a  skeleton  of  landscape;  but 
between  the  stones  and  down  the  precipitous  hill- 
sides and  along  the  hot  gorges,  the  incredible  mul- 
titude of  spring  flowers  were  abloom. 

It  was  a  stiff  scramble  up  the  conical  hill  to  the 
little  hamlet  at  the  top,  built  out  of  and  among  ruins. 
The  mosque,  evidently  an  old  Christian  church 
remodelled,  was  bare,  but  fairly  clean,  cool,  and 
tranquil.  We  peered  through  a  grated  window, 
tied  with  many-coloured  scraps  of  rags  by  the  Mo- 
hammedan pilgrims,  into  a  whitewashed  room  con- 
taining a  huge  sarcophagus  said  to  be  the  tomb 
of  Samuel.  Then  we  climbed  the  minaret  and 

69 


MIZPAH 

lingered  on  the  tiny  railed  balcony,  feeding  on  the 
view. 

The  peak  on  which  we  stood  was  isolated  by  deep 
ravines  from  the  other  hills  of  desolate  gray  and 
scanty  green.  Beyond  the  western  range  lay  the 
Valley  of  Aijalon,  and  beyond  that  the  rich  Plain  of 
Sharon  with  iridescent  hues  of  green  and  blue  and 
silver,  and  beyond  that  the  yellow  line  of  the  sand- 
dunes  broken  by  the  white  spot  of  Jaffa,  and  beyond 
that  the  azure  breadth  of  the  Mediterranean.  North- 
ward, at  our  feet,  on  the  summit  of  a  lower  conical' 
hill,  ringed  with  gray  rock,  lay  the  village  of  El-Jib, 
the  ancient  Geba  of  Benjamin,  one  of  the  cities 
which  Joshua  gave  to  the  Levites. 

This  was  the  place  from  which  Jonathan  and  his 
armour-bearer  set  out,  without  Saul's  knowledge, 
on  their  daring,  perilous  scouting  expedition  against 
the  Philistines.  What  fighting  there  was  in  olden  days 
over  that  tumbled  country  of  hills  and  gorges, 
stretching  away  north  to  the  blue  mountains  of  Sa- 
maria and  the  summits  of  Ebal  and  Gerizim  on  the 
horizon ! 

There  on  the  rocky  backbone  of  Benjamin  and 
70 


MIZPAH 

Ephraim,  was  Ramallah  (where  we  had  spent  Sun- 
day in  the  sweet  orderliness  of  the  Friends'  Mission 
School),  and  Beeroth,  and  Bethel,  and  Gilgal,  and 
Shiloh.  Eastward,  behind  the  hills,  we  could  trace 
the  long,  vast  trench  of  the  Jordan  valley  running 
due  north  and  south,  filled  with  thin  violet  haze  and 
terminating  in  a  glint  of  the  Dead  Sea.  Beyond  that 
deep  line  of  division  rose  the  mountains  of  Gilead 
and  Moab,  a  lofty,  unbroken  barrier.  To  the 
south-east  we  could  see  the  red  roofs  of  the  new 
Jerusalem,  and  a  few  domes  and  minarets  of  the 
ancient  city.  Beyond  them,  in  the  south,  was  the 
truncated  cone  of  the  Frank  Mountain,  where  the 
crusaders  made  their  last  stand  against  the  Saracens ; 
and  the  hills  around  Bethlehem;  and  a  glimpse, 
nearer  at  hand,  of  the  tall  cypresses  and  peaceful 
gardens  of  'Ain  Karim. 

This  terrestrial  paradise  of  vision  encircled  us 
with  jewel-hues  and  clear,  exquisite  outlines.  Below 
us  were  the  flat  roofs  of  Nebi  Samwll,  with  a  dog 
barking  on  every  roof;  the  filthy  courtyards  and 
dark  doorways,  with  a  woman  in  one  of  them  mak- 
ing bread;  the  ruined  archways  and  broken  cisterns 

71 


MIZPAH 

with  a  pool  of  green  water  stagnating  in  one  corner; 
peasants  ploughing  their  stony  little  fields,  and  a  string 
of  donkeys  winding  up  the  steep  path  to  the  hill. 

Here,  centuries  ago,  Samuel  called  all  Israel  to 
Mizpah,  and  offered  sacrifice  before  Jehovah,  and 
judged  the  people.  Here  he  inspired  them  with  new 
courage  and  sent  them  down  to  discomfit  the  Philis- 
tines. Hither  he  came  as  judge  and  ruler  of  Israel, 
making  his  annual  circuit  between  Gilgal  and  Bethel 
and  Mizpah.  Here  he  assembled  the  tribes  again, 
when  they  were  tired  of  his  rule,  and  gave  them  a 
King  according  to  their  desire,  even  the  tall  warrior 
Saul,  the  son  of  Kish. 

Do  the  bones  of  the  prophet  rest  here  or  at  Ra- 
mah  ?  I  do  not  know.  But  here,  on  this  command- 
ing peak,  he  began  and  ended  his  judgeship;  from 
this  aerie  he  looked  forth  upon  the  inheritance  of  the 
turbulent  sons  of  Jacob;  and  here,  if  you  like,  to- 
day, a  pale,  clever  young  Mohammedan  will  show 
you  what  he  calls  the  coffin  of  Samuel. 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

II 

THE    HILL    THAT    JESUS    LOVED 

WE  had  seen  from  Mizpah  the  sharp  ridge  of  the 
Mount  of  Olives,  rising  beyond  Jerusalem.  Our 
road  thither  from  the  camp  led  us  around  the  city, 
past  the  Damascus  Gate,  and  the  royal  grottoes, 
and  Herod's  Gate,  and  the  Tower  of  the  Storks,  and 
St.  Stephen's  Gate,  down  into  the  Valley  of  the 
Brook  Kidron.  Here,  on  the  west,  rises  the  precipi- 
tous Temple  Hill  crowned  with  the  wall  of  the  city, 
and  on  the  east  the  long  ridge  of  Olivet. 

There  are  several  buildings  on  the  side  of  the 
steep  hill,  marking  supposed  holy  places  or  sacred 
events — the  Church  of  the  Tomb  of  the  Virgin,  the 
Latin  Chapel  of  the  Agony,  the  Greek  Church  of 
St.  Mary  Magdalen.  On  top  of  the  ridge  are  the 
Russian  Buildings,  with  the  Chapel  of  the  Ascen- 
sion, and  the  Latin  Buildings,  with  the  Church  of 
the  Creed,  the  Church  of  the  Paternoster,  and  a 
Carmelite  Nunnery.  Among  the  walls  of  these  in- 
closures  we  wound  our  way,  and  at  last  tied  our 

73 


THE    MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

horses  outside  of  the  Russian  garden.  We  climbed 
the  two  hundred  and  fourteen  steps  of  the  lofty  Bel- 
videre  Tower,  and  found  ourselves  in  possession  of 
one  of  the  great  views  of  the  world.  There  is  Jeru- 
salem, across  the  Kidron,  spread  out  like  a  raised 
map  below  us.  The  mountains  of  Judah  roll  away 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west — the  clean-cut 
pinnacle  of  Mizpah,  the  lofty  plain  of  Rephaim,  the 
dark  hills  toward  Hebron,  the  rounded  top  of  Scopus 
where  Titus  camped  with  his  Roman  legions,  the 
flattened  peak  of  Frank  Mountain.  Bethlehem  is 
not  visible;  but  there  is  the  tiny  village  of  Bethphage, 
and  the  first  roof  of  Bethany  peeping  over  the  ridge, 
and  the  Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan  in  a  red  cut  of 
the  long  serpentine  road  to  Jericho.  The  dark  range 
of  Gilead  and  Moab  seems  like  a  huge  wall  of  lapis- 
lazuli  beyond  the  furrowed,  wrinkled,  yellowish 
clay-hills  and  the  wide  gray  trench  of  the  Jordan 
Valley,  wherein  the  river  marks  its  crooked  path 
with  a  line  of  deep  green.  The  hundreds  of  ridges 
that  slope  steeply  down  to  that  immense  depression 
are  touched  with  a  thousand  hues  of  amethystine 
light,  and  the  ravines  between  them  filled  with  a 

74 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

thousand  tones  of  azure  shadow.  At  the  end  of  the 
valley  glitter  the  blue  waters  of  the  Dead  Sea,  fifteen 
miles  away,  four  thousand  feet  below  us,  yet  seeming 
so  near  that  we  almost  expect  to  hear  the  sound 
of  its  waves  on  the  rocky  shores  of  the  Wilderness  of 
Tekoa. 

On  this  mount  Jesus  of  Nazareth  often  walked 
with  His  disciples.  On  this  widespread  landscape 
His  eyes  rested  as  He  spoke  divinely  of  the  invisible 
kingdom  of  peace  and  love  and  joy  that  shall  never 
pass  away.  Over  this  walled  city,  sleeping  in  the 
sunshine,  full  of  earthly  dreams  and  disappoint- 
ments, battlemented  hearts  and  whited  sepulchres 
of  the  spirit,  He  wept,  and  cried:  "O  Jerusalem, 
how  often  would  I  have  gathered  thy  children  to- 
gether even  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  own  brood  under 
her  wings,  and  ye  would  not!" 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

III 
THE    GARDEN    OF    GETHSEMANE 

COME  down,  now,  from  the  mount  of  vision  to 
the  grove  of  olive-trees,  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane, 
where  Jesus  used  to  take  refuge  with  His  friends. 
It  lies  on  the  eastern  slope  of  Olivet,  not  far  above 
the  Valley  of  Kidron,  over  against  that  city-gate 
which  was  called  the  Beautiful,  or  the  Golden,  but 
which  is  now  walled  up. 

The  grove  probably  belonged  to  some  friend  of 
Jesus  or  of  one  of  His  disciples,  who  permitted  them 
to  make  use  of  it  for  their  quiet  meetings.  At  that 
time,  no  doubt,  the  whole  hillside  was  covered  with 
olive-trees,  but  most  of  these  have  now  disappeared. 
The  eight  aged  trees  that  still  cling  to  life  in  Geth- 
semane have  been  inclosed  with  a  low  wall  and  an 
iron  railing,  and  the  little  garden  that  blooms  around 
them  is  cared  for  by  Franciscan  monks  from  Italy. 

The  gentle,  friendly  Fra  Giovanni,  in  bare  san- 
daled feet,  coarse  brown  robe,  and  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat,  is  walking  among  the  flowers.  He  opens 
76 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

the  gate  for  us  and  courteously  invites  us  in,  telling 
us  in  broken  French  that  we  may  pick  what  flowers 
we  like.  Presently  I  fall  into  discourse  with  him  in 
broken  Italian,  telling  him  of  my  visit  years  ago  to 
the  cradle  of  his  Order  at  Assisi,  and  to  its  most 
beautiful  shrine  at  La  Verna,  high  above  the  Val 
d'Arno.  His  old  eyes  soften  into  youthful  brightness 
as  he  speaks  of  Italy.  It  was  most  beautiful,  he  said, 
bellisima!  But  he  is  happier  here,  caring  for  this 
garden,  it  is  most  holy,  santissima! 

The  bronzed  Mohammedan  gardener,  silent,  pa- 
tient, absorbed  in  his  task,  moves  with  his  watering- 
pot  among  the  beds,  quietly  refreshing  the  thirsty 
blossoms.  There  are  wall-flowers,  stocks,  pansies, 
baby's  breath,  pinks,  anemones  of  all  colours,  rose- 
mary, rue,  poppies — all  sorts  of  sweet  old-fashioned 
flowers.  Among  them  stand  the  scattered  venerable 
trees,  with  enormous  trunks,  wrinkled  and  contorted, 
eaten  away  by  age,  patched  and  built  up  with  stones, 
protected  and  tended  with  pious  care,  as  if  they  were 
very  old  people  whose  life  must  be  tenderly  nursed 
and  sheltered.  Their  boles  hardly  seem  to  be  of 
wood;  so  dark,  so  twisted,  so  furrowed  are  they,  of 

77 


THE    MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

an  aspect  so  enduring  that  they  appear  to  be  cast  in 
bronze  or  carved  out  of  black  granite.  Above  each 
of  them  spreads  a  crown  of  fresh  foliage,  delicate, 
abundant,  shimmering  softly  in  the  sunlight  and  the 
breeze,  with  silken  turnings  of  the  under  side  of  the 
innumerable  leaves.  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  is 
a  kind  of  open  flower  house  with  a  fountain  of  flow- 
ing water,  erected  in  memory  of  a  young  American 
girl.  At  each  corner  a  pair  of  slender  cypresses  lift 
their  black-green  spires  against  the  blanched  azure 
of  the  sky. 

It  is  a  place  of  refuge,  of  ineffable  tranquillity,  of 
unforgetful  tenderness.  The  inclosure  does  not 
offend.  How  else  could  this  sacred  shrine  of  the 
out-of-doors  be  preserved?  And  what  more  fitting 
guardian  for  it  than  the  Order  of  that  loving  Saint 
Francis,  who  called  the  sun  and  the  moon  his  brother 
and  his  sister  and  preached  to  a  joyous  congregation 
of  birds  as  his  "  little  brothers  of  the  air  "  ?  The  flow- 
ers do  not  offend.  Their  antique  fragrance,  gracious 
order,  familiar  looks,  are  a  symbol  of  what  faithful 
memory  does  with  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of 
those  who  have  loved  us  best — she  treasures  and 

78 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

transmutes  them  into  something  beautiful,  she 
grows  her  sweetest  flowers  in  the  ground  that  tears 
have  made  holy. 

It  is  here,  in  this  quaint  and  carefully  tended  gar- 
den, this  precious  place  which  has  been  saved  alike 
from  the  oblivious  trampling  of  the  crowd  and  from 
the  needless  imprisonment  of  four  walls  and  a  roof, 
it  is  here  in  the  open  air,  in  the  calm  glow  of  the 
afternoon,  under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Zion,  that 
we  find  for  the  first  time  that  which  we  have  come 
so  far  to  seek, — the  soul  of  the  Holy  Land,  the  in- 
ward sense  of  the  real  presence  of  Jesus. 

It  is  as  clear  and  vivid  as  any  outward  experience. 
Why  should  I  not  speak  of  it  as  simply  and  can- 
didly ?  Nothing  that  we  have  yet  seen  in  Palestine, 
no  vision  of  wide-spread  landscape,  no  sight  of  an- 
cient ruin  or  famous  building  or  treasured  relic, 
comes  as  close  to  our  hearts  as  this  little  garden 
sleeping  in  the  sun.  Nothing  that  we  have  read  from 
our  Bibles  in  the  new  light  of  this  journey  has  been 
for  us  so  suddenly  illumined,  so  deeply  and  tenderly 
brought  home  to  us,  as  the  story  of  Gethsemane. 

Here,  indeed,  in  the  moonlit  shadow  of  these 
79 


THE    MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

olives — if  not  of  these  very  branches,  yet  of  others 
sprung  from  the  same  immemorial  stems — was  en- 
dured the  deepest  suffering  ever  borne  for  man,  the 
most  profound  sorrow  of  the  greatest  Soul  that 
loved  all  human  souls.  It  was  not  in  the  temptation 
in  the  wilderness,  as  Milton  imagined,  that  the  crisis 
of  the  Divine  life  was  enacted  and  Paradise  was  re- 
gained. It  was  in  the  agony  in  the  garden. 

Here  the  love  of  life  wrestled  in  the  heart  of  Jesus 
with  the  purpose  of  sacrifice,  and  the  anguish  of  that 
wrestling  wrung  the  drops  of  blood  from  Him  like 
sweat.  Here,  for  the  only  time,  He  found  the  cup  of 
sorrow  and  shame  too  bitter,  and  prayed  the  Father 
to  take  it  from  His  lips  if  it  were  possible — possible 
without  breaking  faith,  without  surrendering  love. 
For  that  He  would  not  do,  though  His  soul  was  ex- 
ceeding sorrowful,  even  unto  death.  Here  He 
learned  the  frailty  of  human  friendship,  the  narrow- 
ness and  dulness  and  coldness  of  the  very  hearts  for 
whom  He  had  done  and  suffered  most,  who  could 
not  even  watch  with  Him  one  hour. 

What  infinite  sense  of  the  poverty  and  feebleness 
of  mankind,  the  inveteracy  of  selfishness,  the  uncer- 

80 


THE   MOUNT   OF   OLIVES 

tainty  of  human  impulses  and  aspirations  and  prom- 
ises; what  poignant  questioning  of  the  necessity,  the 
utility  of  self-immolation  must  have  tortured  the  soul 
of  Jesus  in  that  hour!  It  was  His  black  hour.  None 
can  imagine  the  depth  of  that  darkness  but  those 
who  have  themselves  passed  through  some  of  its 
outer  shadows,  in  the  times  when  love  seems  vain, 
and  sacrifice  futile,  and  friendship  meaningless,  and 
life  a  failure,  and  death  intolerable. 

Jesus  met  the  spirit  of  despair  in  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane;  and  after  that  meeting,  the  cross  had 
no  terrors  for  Him,  because  He  had  already  endured 
them;  the  grave  no  fear,  because  He  had  already 
conquered  it.  How  calm  and  gentle  was  the  voice 
with  which  He  wakened  His  disciples,  how  firm  the 
step  with  which  He  went  to  meet  Judas !  The  bitter- 
ness of  death  was  behind  Him  in  the  shadow  of  the 
olive-trees.  The  peace  of  Heaven  shone  above  Him 
in  the  silent  stars. 


81 


A  PSALM  OF  SURRENDER 

Mine  enemies  have  prevailed  against  me,  O  God: 
Thou  hast  led  me  deep  into  their  ambush. 

They  surround  me  with  a  hedge  of  spears: 
And  the  sword  in  my  hand  is  broken. 

My  friends  also  have  forsaken  my  side: 

From  a  safe  place  they  look  upon  me  with  pity. 

My  heart  is  like  water  poured  upon  the  ground: 
I  have  come  alone  to  the  place  of  surrender. 

To  thee,  to  thee  only  will  I  give  up  my  sword: 
The  sword  which  was  broken  in  thy  service. 

Thou  hast  required  me  to  suffer  for  thy  cause: 
By  my  defeat  thy  will  is  victorious. 

O  my  King  show  me  thy  face  shining  in  the  dark: 
While  I  drink  the  loving-cup  of  death  to  thy  glory. 


82 


AN    EXCURSION    TO    BETHLE- 
HEM  AND   HEBRON 


BETHLEHEM 

A.  SPARKLING  morning  followed  a  showery 
night,  and  all  the  little  red  and  white  and  yellow 
flowers  were  lifting  glad  faces  to  the  sun  as  we  took 
the  highroad  to  Bethlehem.  Leaving  the  Jaffa  Gate 
on  the  left,  we  crossed  the  head  of  the  deep  Valley 
of  Hinnom,  below  the  dirty  Pool  of  the  Sultan, 
and  rode  up  the  hill  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
vale. 

There  was  much  rubbish  and  filth  around  us,  and 
the  sight  of  the  Ophthalmic  Hospital  of  the  English 
Knights  of  Saint  John,  standing  in  the  beauty  of 
cleanness  and  order  beside  the  road,  did  our  eyes 
good.  Blindness  is  one  of  the  common  afflictions 
of  the  people  of  Palestine.  Neglect  and  ignorance 
and  dirt  and  the  plague  of  crawling  flies  spread  the 
germs  of  disease  from  eye  to  eye,  and  the  people  sub- 
mit to  it  with  pathetic  and  irritating  fatalism.  It  is 

hard  to  persuade  these  poor  souls  that  the  will  of 

85 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

Allah  or  Jehovah  in  this  matter  ought  not  to  be  ac- 
cepted until  after  it  has  been  questioned.  But  the 
light  of  true  and  humane  religion  is  spreading  a  little. 
We  rejoiced  to  see  the  reception-room  of  the  hospital 
filled  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  women 
and  children  waiting  for  the  good  physicians  who 
save  and  restore  sight  in  the  name  of  Jesus. 

To  the  right,  a  little  below  us,  lay  the  ugly  railway 
station;  before  us,  rising  gently  southward,  extended 
the  elevated  Plain  of  Rephaim  where  David  smote 
the  host  of  the  Philistines  after  he  had  heard  "the 
sound  of  a  going  in  the  tops  of  the  mulberry-trees." 
The  red  soil  was  cultivated  in  little  farms  and 
gardens.  The  almond-trees  were  in  leaf;  the  haw- 
thorn in  blossom;  the  fig-trees  were  putting  forth 
their  tender  green. 

A  slowly  ascending  road  brought  us  to  the  hill  of 
Mar  Elyas,  and  the  so-called  Well  of  the  Magi. 
Here  the  legend  says  the  Wise  Men  halted  after  they 
had  left  Jerusalem,  and  the  star  reappeared  to  guide 
them  on  to  Bethlehem.  Certain  it  is  that  they  must 
have  taken  this  road;  and  certain  it  is  that  both 
Bethlehem  and  Jerusalem,  hidden  from  each  other 


A  Street  in  Bethlehem. 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

by  the  rising  ground,  are  clearly  visible  to  one  who 
stands  in  the  saddle  of  this  hill. 

There  were  fine  views  down  the  valleys  to  the  east, 
with  blue  glimpses  of  the  Dead  Sea  at  the  end  of 
them.  The  supposed  tomb  of  Rachel,  a  dingy  little 
building  with  a  white  dome,  interested  us  less  than  the 
broad  lake  of  olive-orchards  around  the  distant  vil- 
lage of  Beit  Jala,  and  the  green  fields,  pastures  and  gar- 
dens encircling  the  double  hill  of  Bethlehem,  the  an- 
cient "House  of  Bread."  There  was  an  aspect  of 
fertility  and  friendliness  about  the  place  that  seemed 
in  harmony  with  its  name  and  its  poetic  memories. 

In  a  walled  kitchen-garden  at  the  entrance  of  the 
town  was  David's  Well.  We  felt  no  assurance,  of 
course,  as  we  looked  down  into  it,  that  this  was  the 
veritable  place.  But  at  all  events  it  served  to 
bring  back  to  us  one  of  the  prettiest  bits  of  romance 
in  the  Old  Testament.  When  the  bold  son  of  Jesse 
had  become  a  chieftain  of  outlaws  and  was  besieged 
by  the  Philistines  in  the  stronghold  of  Adullam,  his 
heart  grew  thirsty  for  a  draught  from  his  father's 
well,  whose  sweetness  he  had  known  as  a  boy.  And 
when  his  three  mighty  men  went  up  secretly  at  the 

87 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

risk  of  their  lives,  and  broke  through  the  host  of  their 
enemies,  and  brought  their  captain  a  vessel  of  this 
water,  "he  would  not  drink  thereof,  but  poured  it 
out  unto  Jehovah." 

There  was  a  division  of  opinion  in  our  party  in 
regard  to  this  act.  "It  was  sheer  foolishness," 
said  the  Patriarch,  "to  waste  anything  that  had 
cost  so  much  to  get.  What  must  the  three  mighty 
men  have  thought  when  they  saw  that  for  which 
they  had  risked  their  lives  poured  out  upon  the 
ground?"  "Ah,  no,"  said  the  Lady.  "It  was 
the  highest  gratitude,  because  it  was  touched  with 
poetry.  It  was  the  best  compliment  that  David 
could  have  given  to  his  friends.  Some  gifts  are  too 
precious  to  be  received  in  any  other  way  than  this." 
And  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  she  was  right. 

Riding  through  the  narrow  streets  of  the  town, 
which  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  Christians,  we 
noted  the  tranquil  good  looks  of  the  women,  a  dis- 
tinct type,  rather  short  of  stature,  round-faced,  placid 
and  kind  of  aspect.  Not  a  few  of  them  had  blue  eyes. 
They  wore  dark-blue  skirts,  dark-red  jackets,  and  a 
white  veil  over  their  heads,  but  not  over  their  faces. 

88 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

Under  the  veil  the  married  women  wore  a  peculiar 
cap  of  stiff,  embroidered  black  cloth,  about  six 
inches  high,  and  across  the  front  of  this  cap  was 
strung  their  dowry  of  gold  or  silver  coins.  Such  a 
dress,  no  doubt,  was  worn  by  the  Virgin  Mary,  and 
such  tranquil,  friendly  looks,  I  think,  were  hers,  but 
touched  with  a  rarer  light  of  beauty  shining  from 
a  secret  source  within. 

A  crowd  of  little  boys  and  girls  just  released  from 
school  for  their  recess  shouted  and  laughed  and 
chased  one  another,  pausing  for  a  moment  in  round- 
eyed  wonder  when  I  pointed  my  camera  at  them. 
Donkeys  and  camels  and  sheep  made  our  passage 
through  the  town  slow,  and  gave  us  occasion  to  look 
to  our  horses'  footing.  At  one  corner  a  great  white 
sow  ran  out  of  an  alley- way,  followed  by  a  twinkling 
litter  of  pink  pigs.  In  the  market-place  we  left  our 
horses  in  the  shadow  of  the  monastery  wall  and 
entered,  by  a  low  door,  the  lofty,  bare  Church  of 
the  Nativity. 

The  long  rows  of  immense  marble  pillars  had  some 
faded  remains  of  painting  on  them.  There  were  a 
few  battered  fragments  of  mosaic  in  the  clerestory, 

89 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

dimly  glittering.  But  the  general  effect  of  the 
whitewashed  walls,  the  ancient  brown  beams  and 
rafters  of  the  roof,  the  large,  empty  space,  was  one  of 
extreme  simplicity. 

When  we  came  into  the  choir  and  apse  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of  complexity.  The  owner- 
ship of  the  different  altars  with  their  gilt  ornaments, 
of  the  swinging  lamps,  of  the  separate  doorways  of 
the  Greeks  and  the  Armenians  and  the  Latins,  was 
bewildering.  Dark,  winding  steps,  slippery  with  the 
drippings  from  many  candles,  led  us  down  into  the 
Grotto  of  the  Nativity.  It  was  a  cavern  perhaps 
forty  feet  long  and  ten  feet  wide,  lit  by  thirty  pen- 
dent lamps  (Greek,  Armenian  and  Latin):  marble 
floor  and  walls  hung  with  draperies;  a  silver  star  in 
the  pavement  before  the  altar  to  mark  the  spot  where 
Christ  was  born ;  a  marble  manger  in  the  corner  to 
mark  the  cradle  in  which  Christ  was  laid ;  a  never- 
ceasing  stream  of  poor  pilgrims,  who  come  kneeling, 
and  kissing  the  star  and  the  stones  and  the  altar  for 
Christ's  sake. 

We  paused  for  a  while,  after  we  had  come  up,  to 
ask  ourselves  whether  what  we  had  seen  was  in  any 

90 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

way  credible.  Yes,  credible,  but  not  convincing. 
No  doubt  the  ancient  Khan  of  Bethlehem  must  have 
been  somewhere  near  this  spot,  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
market-place  of  the  town.  No  doubt  it  was  the  cus- 
tom, when  there  were  natural  hollows  or  artificial 
grottos  in  the  rock  near  such  an  inn,  to  use  them  as 
shelters  and  stalls  for  the  cattle.  It  is  quite  possible, 
it  is  even  probable,  that  this  may  have  been  one  of 
the  shallow  caverns  used  for  such  a  purpose.  If  so, 
there  is  no  reason  to  deny  that  this  may  be  the  place 
of  the  wondrous  birth,  where,  as  the  old  French  Noel 
has  it: 

**Dieu  parmy  les  pastoreaux, 
Sous  la  creche  des  toreaux, 
Dans  les  champs  a  voulu  naistre; 
Et  non  parmy  les  arrays 
Des  grands  princes  et  des  roys, — 
Lui  des  plus  grands  roys  le  maistre" 

But  to  the  eye,  at  least,  there  is  no  reminder  of  the 
scene  of  the  Nativity  in  this  close  and  stifling  chapel, 
hung  with  costly  silks  and  embroideries,  glittering 
with  rich  lamps,  filled  with  the  smoke  of  incense  and 
waxen  tapers.  And  to  the  heart  there  is  little  sug- 

91 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

gestion  of  the  lonely  night  when  Joseph  found  a 
humble  refuge  here  for  his  young  bride  to  wait  in 
darkness,  pain  and  hope  for  her  hour  to  come. 

In  the  church  above,  the  Latins  and  Armenians 
and  Greeks  guard  their  privileges  and  prerogatives 
jealously.  There  have  been  rights  here  about  the 
driving  of  a  nail,  the  hanging  of  a  picture,  the  sweep- 
ing of  a  bit  of  the  floor.  The  Crimean  War  began  in 
a  quarrel  between  the  Greeks  and  the  Latins,  and  a 
mob-struggle  in  the  Church  of  the  Nativity.  Under- 
neath the  floor,  to  the  north  of  the  Grotto  of  the 
Nativity,  is  the  cave  in  which  Saint  Jerome  lived 
peaceably  for  many  years,  translating  the  Bible  into 
Latin.  That  was  better  than  fighting. 

II 

ON  THE   ROAD   TO   HEBRON 

WE  ate  our  lunch  at  Bethlehem  in  a  curiosity- 
shop.  The  table  was  spread  at  the  back  of  the  room 
by  the  open  window.  All  around  us  were  hanging 
innumerable  chaplets  and  rosaries  of  mother-of- 
pearl,  of  carnelian,  of  carved  olive-stones,  of  glass 

92 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

beads;  trinkets  and  souvenirs  of  all  imaginable 
kinds,  tiny  sheep-bells  and  inlaid  boxes  and  carved 
fans  filled  the  cases  and  cabinets.  Through  the 
window  came  the  noise  of  people  busy  at  Bethle- 
hem's chief  industry,  the  cutting  and  polishing  of 
mother-of-pearl  for  mementoes.  The  jingling  bells 
of  our  pack-train,  passing  the  open  door,  reminded 
us  that  our  camp  was  to  be  pitched  miles  away  on 
the  road  to  Hebron. 

We  called  for  the  horses  and  rode  on  through  the 
town.  Very  beautiful  and  peaceful  was  the  view 
from  the  southern  hill,  looking  down  upon  the 
pastures  of  Bethlehem  where  "shepherds  watched 
their  flocks  by  night,"  and  the  field  of  Boaz  where 
Ruth  followed  the  reapers  among  the  corn. 

Down  dale  and  up  hill  we  journeyed;  bright  green 
of  almond-trees,  dark  green  of  carob-trees,  snowy 
blossoms  of  apricot-trees,  rosy  blossoms  of  peach- 
trees,  argent  verdure  of  olive-trees,  adorning  the  val- 
leys. Then  out  over  the  wilder,  rockier  heights; 
and  past  the  great  empty  Pools  of  Solomon,  lying  at 
the  head  of  the  Wadi  Artas,  watched  by  a  square 
ruined  castle;  and  up  the  winding  road  and  along 

93 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

the  lofty  flower-sprinkled  ridges;  and  at  last  we 
came  to  our  tents,  pitched  in  the  wide,  green  Wadi 
el-'Arrub,  beside  the  bridge. 

Springs  gushed  out  of  the  hillside  here  and  ran 
down  in  a  little  laughing  brook  through  lawns  full  of 
tiny  pink  and  white  daisies,  and  broad  fields  of  tan- 
gled weeds  and  flowers,  red  anemones,  blue  iris,  pur- 
ple mallows,  scarlet  adonis,  with  here  and  there 
a  strip  of  cultivated  ground  shimmering  with  silky 
leeks  or  dotted  with  young  cucumbers.  There  was 
a  broken  aqueduct  cut  in  the  rock  at  the  side  of  the 
valley,  and  the  brook  slipped  by  a  large  ruined 
reservoir. 

"George,"  said  I  to  the  Bethlehemite,  as  he  sat 
meditating  on  the  edge  of  the  dry  pool,  "what  do 
you  think  of  this  valley?" 

"I  think,"  said  George,  "that  if  I  had  a  few  thou- 
sand dollars  to  buy  the  land,  with  all  this  runaway 
water  I  could  make  it  blossom  like  a  peach-tree." 

The  cold,  green  sunset  behind  the  western  hills 
darkened  into  night.  The  air  grew  chilly,  dropping 
nearly  to  the  point  of  frost.  We  missed  the  blazing 
camp-fire  of  the  Canadian  forests,  and  went  to  bed 

94 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

early,  tucking  in  the  hot-water  bags  at  our  feet  and 
piling  on  the  blankets  and  rugs.  All  through  the 
night  we  could  hear  the  passers-by  shouting  and 
singing  along  the  Hebron  road.  There  was  one  un- 
known traveller  whose  high-pitched,  quavering  Arab 
song  rose  far  away,  and  grew  louder  as  he  ap- 
proached, and  passed  us  in  a  whirlwind  of  lugubrious 
music,  and  tapered  slowly  off  into  distance  and  si- 
lence— a  chant  a  mile  long. 

The  morning  broke  through  flying  clouds,  with  a 
bitter,  wet,  west  wind  rasping  the  bleak  highlands. 
There  were  spiteful  showers  with  intervals  of  mock- 
ing sunshine;  it  was  a  mischievous  and  prankish  bit 
of  weather,  no  day  for  riding.  But  the  Lady  was 
indomitable,  so  we  left  the  Patriarch  in  his  tent, 
wrapped  ourselves  in  garments  of  mackintosh  and 
took  the  road  again. 

The  country,  at  first,  was  wild  and  barren,  a  wil- 
derness of  rocks  and  thorn  bushes  and  stunted  scrub 
oaks.  Now  and  then  a  Greek  partridge,  in  its  beau- 
tiful plumage  of  fawn-gray,  marked  with  red  and 
black  about  the  head,  clucked  like  a  hen  on  the  stony 
hillside,  or  whirred  away  in  low,  straight  flight  over 

95 


BETHLEHEM   AND    HEBRON 

the  bushes.  Flocks  of  black  and  brown  goats,  with 
pendulous  ears,  skipped  up  and  down  the  steep  ridges, 
standing  up  on  their  hind  legs  to  browse  the  foliage 
of  the  little  oak  shrubs,  or  showing  themselves  off  in 
a  butting-match  on  top  of  a  big  rock.  Marching  on 
the  highroad  they  seemed  sedate,  despondent,  pat- 
tering along  soberly  with  flapping  ears.  In  the  midst 
of  one  flock  I  saw  a  fierce-looking  tattered  pastor 
tenderly  carrying  a  little  black  kid  in  his  bosom — as 
tenderly  as  if  it  were  a  lamb.  It  seemed  like  an  illus- 
tration of  a  picture  that  I  saw  long  ago  in  the  Cata- 
combs, in  which  the  infant  church  of  Christ  silently 
expressed  the  richness  of  her  love,  the  breadth  of  her 
hope: 

"On  those  walls  subterranean,  where  she  hid 
Her  head  'mid  ignominy,  death  and  tombs, 
She  her  Good  Shepherd's  hasty  image  drew — 
And  on  His  shoulders,  not  a  lamb,  a  kid." 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  Hebron  the  region  appeared 
more  fertile,  and  the  landscape  smiled  a  little  under 
the  gleams  of  wintry  sunshine.  There  were  many 
vineyards;  in  most  of  them  the  vines  trailed  along 
the  ground,  but  in  some  they  were  propped  up  on 

96 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

sticks,  like  old  men  leaning  on  crutches.  Almond 
and  apricot- trees  flourished.  The  mulberries,  the 
olives,  the  sycamores  were  abundant.  Peasants 
were  ploughing  the  fields  with  their  crooked  sticks 
shod  with  a  long  iron  point.  When  a  man  puts  his 
hand  to  such  a  plough  he  dares  not  look  back,  else  it 
will  surely  go  aside.  It  makes  a  scratch,  not  a 
furrow.  (I  saw  a  man  in  the  hospital  at  Nazareth 
who  had  his  thigh  pierced  clear  through  by  one  of 
these  dagger-like  iron  plough  points.) 

Children  were  gathering  roots  and  thorn  branches 
for  firewood.  Women  were  carrying  huge  bundles 
on  their  heads.  Donkey-boys  were  urging  their 
heavy-laden  animals  along  the  road,  and  cameleers 
led  their  deliberate  strings  of  ungainly  beasts  by  a 
rope  or  a  light  chain  reaching  from  one  nodding 
head  to  another. 

A  camel's  load  never  looks  as  large  as  a  donkey's, 
but  no  doubt  he  often  finds  it  heavy,  and  he  always 
looks  displeased  with  it.  There  is  something  about 
the  droop  of  a  camel's  lower  lip  which  seems  to  ex- 
press unalterable  disgust  with  the  universe.  But 
the  rest  of  the  world  around  Hebron  appeared  to  be 

97 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

reasonably  happy.  In  spite  of  weather  and  poverty 
and  hard  work  the  ploughmen  sang  in  the  fields,  the 
children  skipped  and  whistled  at  their  tasks,  the 
passers-by  on  the  road  shouted  greetings  to  the  la- 
bourers in  the  gardens  and  vineyards.  Somewhere 
round  about  here  is  supposed  to  lie  the  Valley  of 
Eshcol  from  which  the  Hebrew  spies  brought  back 
the  monstrous  bunch  of  grapes,  a  cluster  that  reached 
from  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder  to  the  ground. 


Ill 

THE     TENTING-GROUND     OF 
ABRAHAM 

HEBRON  lies  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
is  one  of  the  ancient  market-places  and  shrines  of 
the  world.  From  time  immemorial  it  has  been  a  holy 
town,  a  busy  town,  and  a  turbulent  town.  The  Hit- 
tites  and  the  Amorites  dwelt  here,  and  Abraham, 
a  nomadic  shepherd  whose  tents  followed  his  flocks 
over  the  land  of  Canaan,  bought  here  his  only 
piece  of  real  estate,  the  field  and  cave  of  Machpelah. 
He  bought  it  for  a  tomb, — even  a  nomad  wishes 

98 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

to  rest  quietly  in  death, — and  here  he  and  his  wife 
Sarah,  and  his  children  Isaac  and  Rebekah,  and  his 
grandchildren  Jacob  and  Leah  were  buried. 

The  modern  town  has  about  twenty  thousand  in- 
habitants, chiefly  Mohammedans  of  a  fanatical  tem- 
per, and  is  incredibly  dirty.  We  passed  the  muddy 
pool  by  which  King  David,  when  he  was  reigning 
here,  hanged  the  murderers  of  Ishbosheth.  We 
climbed  the  crooked  streets  to  the  Mosque  which 
covers  the  supposed  site  of  the  cave  of  Machpelah. 
But  we  did  not  see  the  tomb  of  Abraham,  for  no 
"infidel"  is  allowed  to  pass  beyond  the  seventh  step 
in  the  flight  of  stairs  which  leads  up  to  the  doorway. 

As  we  went  down  through  the  narrow,  dark, 
crowded  Bazaar  a  violent  storm  of  hail  broke  over 
the  city,  pelting  into  the  little  open  shops  and  cover- 
ing the  streets  half  an  inch  deep  with  snowy  sand 
and  pebbles  of  ice.  The  tempest  was  a  rude  joke, 
which  seemed  to  surprise  the  surly  crowd  into  a  good 
humour.  We  laughed  with  the  Moslems  as  we  took 
shelter  together  from  our  common  misery  under  a 
stone  archway. 

After  the  storm  had  passed  we  ate  our  midday 
99 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

meal  on  a  housetop,  which  a  friend  of  the  dragoman 
put  at  our  disposal,  and  rode  out  in  the  afternoon  to 
the  Oak  of  Abraham  on  the  hill  of  Mamre.  The 
tree  is  an  immense,  battered  veteran,  with  a  trunk 
ten  feet  in  diameter,  and  wide-flung,  knotted  arms 
which  still  bear  a  few  leaves  and  acorns.  It  has  been 
inclosed  with  a  railing,  patched  up  with  masonry, 
partially  protected  by  a  roof.  The  Russian  monks 
who  live  near  by  have  given  it  pious  care,  yet  its  in- 
evitable end  is  surely  near. 

The  death  of  a  great  sheltering  tree  has  a  kind  of 
dumb  pathos.  It  seems  like  the  passing  away  of 
something  beneficent  and  helpless,  something  that 
was  able  to  shield  others  but  not  itself. 

On  this  hill,  under  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  Abraham's 
tents  were  pitched  many  a  year,  and  here  he  enter- 
tained the  three  angels  unawares,  and  Sarah  made 
pancakes  for  them,  and  listened  behind  the  tent-flap 
while  they  were  talking  with  her  husband,  and 
laughed  at  what  they  said.  This  may  not  be  the 
very  tree  that  flung  its  shadow  over  the  tent,  but 
no  doubt  it  is  a  son  or  a  grandson  of  that  tree,  and 
the  acorns  that  still  fall  from  it  may  be  the  seeds  of 
100 


BETHLEHEM    AND    HEBRON 

other  oaks  to  shelter  future  generations  of  pilgrims; 
and  so  throughout  the  world,  the  ancient  covenant  of 
friendship  is  unbroken,  and  man  remains  a  grateful 
lover  of  the  big,  kind  trees. 

We  got  home  to  our  camp  in  the  green  meadow  of 
the  springs  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  on  the  third 
day  we  rode  back  to  Jerusalem,  and  pitched  the 
tents  in  a  new  place,  on  a  hill  opposite  the  Jaffa 
Gate,  with  a  splendid  view  of  the  Valley  of  Hinnom, 
the  Tower  of  David,  and  the  western  wall  of  the  city. 


101 


A  PSALM  OF  FRIENDLY  TREES 

I  will  sing  of  the  bounty  of  the  big  trees, 

They  are  the  green  tents  of  the  Almighty, 

He  hath  set  them  up  for  comfort  and  for  shelter. 

Their  cords  Iiath  he  knotted  in  the  earth, 
He  hath  driven  their  stakes  securely, 
Their  roots  take  hold  of  the  rocks  like  iron. 

He  sendeth  into  their  bodies  the  sap  of  life, 
They  lift  themselves  lightly  towards  the  heavens. 
They  rejoice  in  the  broadening  of  their  branches. 

Tlieir  leaves  drink  in  the  sunlight  and  the  air, 
They  talk  softly  together  when  the  breeze  bloweth, 
Tlieir  sJiadow  in  the  noonday  is  full  of  coolness. 

The  tall  palm-trees  of  the  plain  are  rich  in  fruit, 

While  the  fruit  ripeneth  the  flower  unfoldeth, 

The  beauty  of  their  crown  is  renewed  on  high  forever. 

TJie  cedars  of  Lebanon  are  fed  by  the  snow, 
Afar  on  the  mountain  they  grow  like  giants, 
In  their  layers  of  shade  a  thousand  years  are  sighing. 
102 


How  fair  are  the  trees  that  befriend  the  home  of  man. 
The  oak,  and  the  terebinth,  and  the  sycamore, 
The  fruitful  fig-tree  and  the  silvery  olive. 

In  them  the  Lord  is  loving  to  his  little  birds, — 
The  linnets  and  the  finches  and  the  nightingales, — 
They  people  his  pavilions  with  nests  and  with  music. 

The  cattle  are  very  glad  of  a  great  tree, 

They  chew  the  cud   beneath  it  while  the  sun  is 

burning, 
There  also  the  panting  sheep  lie  down  around  their 

shepherd. 

He  that  planteth  a  tree  is  a  servant  of  God, 
He  provideth  a  kindness  for  many  generations, 
And  faces  that  he  hath  not  seen  shall  bless  him. 

Lord,  when  my  spirit  shall  return  to  thee, 
At  the  foot  of  a  friendly  tree  let  my  body  be  buried, 
That  this  dust  may  rise  and  rejoice   among  the 
branches. 


103 


VI 


THE  DOME   OF  THE  ROCK 

THERE  is  an  upward  impulse  in  man  that  draws 
him  to  a  hilltop  for  his  place  of  devotion  and  sanct- 
uary of  ascending  thoughts.  The  purer  air,  the 
wider  outlook,  the  sense  of  freedom  and  elevation, 
help  to  release  his  spirit  from  the  weight  that  bends 
his  forehead  to  the  dust.  A  traveller  in  Palestine,  if 
he  had  wings,  could  easily  pass  through  the  whole 
land  by  short  flights  from  the  summit  of  one  holy 
hill  to  another,  and  look  down  from  a  series  of 
mountain-altars  upon  the  wrinkled  map  of  sacred 
history  without  once  descending  into  the  valley  or 
toiling  over  the  plain.  But  since  there  are  no  wings 
provided  in  the  human  outfit,  our  journey  from 
shrine  to  shrine  must  follow  the  common  way  of 
men, — which  is  also  a  symbol, — the  path  of  up-and- 
down,  and  many  windings,  and  weary  steps. 

The  oldest  of  the  shrines  of  Jerusalem  is  the 
threshing-floor  of  Araunah  the  Jebusite,  which  David 
107 


THE    TEMPLE 

bought  from  him  in  order  that  it  might  be  made  the 
site  of  the  Temple  of  Jehovah.  No  doubt  the  King 
knew  of  the  traditions  which  connected  the  place 
with  ancient  and  famous  rites  of  worship.  But  I 
think  he  was  moved  also  by  the  commanding  beauty 
of  the  situation,  on  the  very  summit  of  Mount  Moriah, 
looking  down  into  the  deep  Valley  of  the  Kidron. 

Our  way  to  this  venerable  and  sacred  hill 
leads  through  the  crooked  duskiness  of  David 
Street,  and  across  the  half-filled  depression  of  the 
Tyropceon  Valley  which  divides  the  city,  and  up 
through  the  dim,  deserted  Bazaar  of  the  Cotton 
Merchants,  and  so  through  the  central  western  gate 
of  the  Haram-esh-Sherlf,  "the  Noble  Sanctuary." 

This  is  a  great  inclosure,  clean,  spacious,  airy, 
a  place  of  refuge  from  the  foul  confusion  of  the  city 
streets.  The  wall  that  shuts  us  in  is  almost  a  mile 
long,  and  within  this  open  space,  which  makes  an 
immediate  effect  of  breadth  and  tranquil  order,  are 
some  of  the  most  sacred  buildings  of  Islam  and  some 
of  the  most  significant  landmarks  of  Christianity. 

Slender  and  graceful  arcades  are  outlined  against 
the  clear,  blue  sky:  little  domes  are  poised  over 
108 


THE    TEMPLE 

praying-places  and  fountains  of  ablution:  wide  and 
easy  flights  of  steps  lead  from  one  level  to  another, 
in  this  park  of  prayer. 

At  the  southern  end,  beyond  the  tall  cypresses 
and  the  plashing  fountain  fed  from  Solomon's 
Pools,  stands  the  long  Mosque  el-Aksa:  to  Moham- 
medans, the  place  to  which  Allah  brought  their 
prophet  from  Mecca  in  one  night;  to  Chris'tians,  the 
Basilica  which  the  Emperor  Justinian  erected  in 
honor  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  At  the  northern  end  rises 
the  ancient  wall  of  the  Castle  of  Antonia,  from 
whose  steps  Saint  Paul,  protected  by  the  Roman 
captain,  spoke  his  defence  to  the  Jerusalem  mob. 
The  steps,  hewn  partly  in  the  solid  rock,  are  still 
visible;  but  the  site  of  the  castle  is  occupied  by  the 
Turkish  barracks,  beside  which  the  tallest  minaret 
of  the  Haram  lifts  its  covered  gallery  high  above  the 
corner  of  the  great  wall. 

Yonder  to  the  east  is  the  Golden  Gate,  above  the 
steep  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  It  is  closed  with  great 
stones;  because  the  Moslem  tradition  says  that  some 
Friday  a  Christian  conqueror  will  enter  Jerusalem 
by  that  gate.  Not  far  away  we  see  the  column  in  the 
109 


THE   TEMPLE 

wall  from  which  the  Mohammedans  believe  a  slender 
rope,  or  perhaps  a  naked  sword,  will  be  stretched, 
in  the  judgment  day,  to  the  Mount  of  Olives  oppo- 
site. This,  according  to  them,  will  be  the  bridge 
over  which  all  human  souls  must  walik,  while  Christ 
sits  at  one  end,  Mohammed  at  the  other,  watching 
and  judging.  The  righteous,  upheld  by  angels,  will 
pass  safely;  the  wieked,  heavy  with  unbalanced 
sins,  will  fall. 

Dominating  all  these  wide-spread  relics  and 
shrines,  in  the  centre  of  the  inclosure,  on  a  raised 
platform  approached  through  delicate  arcades,  stands 
the  great  Dome  of  the  Rock,  built  by  Abd-el-Melik 
in  688  A.D.,  on  the  site  of  the  Jewish  Temple.  The 
exterior  of  the  vast  octagon,  with  its  lower  half  cased 
in  marble  and  its  upper  half  incrusted  with  Persian 
tiles  of  blue  and  green,  its  broad,  round  lantern  and 
swelling  black  dome  surmounted  by  a  glittering 
crescent,  is  bathed  in  full  sunlight;  serene,  proud, 
eloquent  of  a  certain  splendid  simplicity.  Within,  the 
light  filters  dimly  through  windows  of  stained  glass 
and  falls  on  marble  columns,  bronzed  beams,  mosaic 
walls,  screens  of  wrought  iron  and  carved  wood. 
110 


THE   TEMPLE 

We  walk  as  if  through  an  interlaced  forest  and  under- 
growth of  rich  entangled  colours.  It  all  seems  vi- 
sionary, unreal,  fantastic,  until  we  climb  the  bench 
by  the  end  of  the  inner  screen  and  look  upon  the 
Rock  over  which  the  Dome  is  built. 

This  is  the  real  thing, — a  plain  gray  limestone  rock, 
level  and  fairly  smooth,  the  unchanged  summit  of 
Mount  Moriah.  Here  the  priest-king  Melchizedek 
offered  sacrifice.  Here  Abraham,  in  the  cruel  fervour 
of  his  faith,  was  about  to  slay  his  only  son  Isaac  be- 
cause he  thought  it  would  please  Jehovah.  Here 
Araunah  the  Jebusite  threshed  his  corn  on  the 
smooth  rock  and  winnowed  it  in  the  winds  of  the 
hilltop,  until  King  David  stepped  over  from  Mount 
Zion,  and  bought  the  threshing-floor  and  the  oxen  of 
him  for  fifty  shekels  of  silver,  and  built  in  this  place 
an  altar  to  the  Lord.  Here  Solomon  erected  his  splen- 
did Temple  and  the  Chaldeans  burned  it.  Here 
Zerubbabel  built  the  second  Temple  after  the  return 
of  the  Jews  from  exile,  and  Antiochus  Epiphanes  des- 
ecrated it,  and  Herod  burned  part  of  it  and  pulled 
down  the  rest.  Here  Herod  built  the  third  Temple, 
larger  and  more  magnificent  than  the  first,  and  the 
111 


THE   TEMPLE 

soldiers  of  the  Emperor  Titus  burned  it.  Here  the 
Emperor  Hadrian  built  a  temple  to  Jupiter  and 
himself,  and  some  one,  perhaps  the  Christians, 
burned  it.  Here  Mohammed  came  to  pray,  declar- 
ing that  one  prayer  here  was  worth  a  thousand  else- 
where. Here  the  Caliph  Omar  built  a  little  wooden 
mosque,  and  the  Caliph  Abd-el-Melik  replaced  it 
with  this  great  one  of  marble,  and  the  Crusaders 
changed  it  into  a  Christian  temple,  and  Saladin 
changed  it  back  again  into  a  mosque. 

This  Haram-esh-Sherif  is  the  second  holiest  place 
in  the  Moslem  world.  Hither  come  the  Mohamme- 
dan pilgrims  by  thousands,  for  the  sake  of  Moham- 
med. Hither  come  the  Christian  pilgrims  by  thou- 
sands, for  the  sake  of  Him  who  said:  "Neither  in 
this  mountain  nor  in  Jerusalem  shall  ye  worship  the 
Father."  Hither  the  Jewish  pilgrims  never  come, 
for  fear  their  feet  may  unwittingly  tread  upon  "the 
Holy  of  Holies,"  and  defile  it;  but  they  creep  outside 
of  the  great  inclosure,  in  the  gloomy  trench  beside 
the  foundation  stones  of  the  wall,  mourning  and  la- 
menting for  the  majesty  that  is  departed  and  the 
Temple  that  is  ground  to  powder. 
112 


THE    TEMPLE 

But  amid  all  these  changes  and  perturbations, 
here  stands  the  good  old  limestone  rock,  the  thresh- 
ing-floor of  Araunah,  the  capstone  of  the  hill,  wait- 
ing for  the  sun  to  shine  and  the  dews  to  fall  on  it 
once  more,  as  they  did  when  the  foundations  of  the 
earth  were  laid. 

The  legend  says  that  you  can  hear  the  waters  of  the 
flood  roaring  in  an  abyss  underneath  the  rock.  I 
laid  my  ear  against  the  rugged  stone  and  listened. 
What  sound  ?  Was  it  the  voice  of  turbulent  cen- 
turies and  the  lapsing  tides  of  men  ? 

II 
GOLGOTHA 

"  WE  ought  to  go  again  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,"  said  the  Lady  in  a  voice  of  dutiful  re- 
minder, "we  have  not  half  seen  it."  So  we  went 
down  to  the  heart  of  Jerusalem  and  entered  the 
labyrinthine  shrine. 

The  motley  crowd  in  the  paved  quadrangle  in 
front  of  the  double-arched  doorway  were  buying  and 
selling,  bickering  and  chaffering  and  chattering  as 
113 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

usual.  Within  the  portal,  on  a  slightly  raised  plat- 
form to  the  left,  the  Turkish  guardians  of  the  holy 
places  and  keepers  of  the  peace  between  Christians 
were  seated  among  their  rugs  and  cushions,  impas- 
sive, indolent,  dignified,  drinking  their  coffee  or 
smoking  their  tobacco,  conversing  gravely  or  count- 
ing the  amber  beads  of  their  comboloios.  The  Sultan 
owns  the  Holy  Sepulchre;  but  he  is  a  liberal  host 
and  permits  all  factions  of  Christendom  to  visit  it 
and  celebrate  their  rites  in  turn,  provided  only  they 
do  not  beat  or  kill  one  another  in  their  devotions. 
We  saw  his  silent  sentinels  of  tolerance  scattered 
in  every  part  of  the  vast,  confused  edifice. 

The  interior  was  dim  and  shadowy.  Opposite  the 
entrance  was  the  Stone  of  Unction,  a  marble  slab  on 
which  it  is  said  the  body  of  Christ  was  anointed 
when  it  was  taken  down  from  the  cross.  Pilgrim 
after  pilgrim  came  kneeling  to  this  stone,  and  bend- 
ing to  kiss  it,  beneath  the  Latin,  Greek,  Armenian 
and  Coptic  lamps  which  hang  above  it  by  silver 
chains. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Crucifixion  was  on  our  right, 
above  us,  in  the  second  story  of  the  church.  We 
114 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

climbed  the  steep  flight  of  stairs  and  stood  in  a  little 
room,  close,  obscure,  crowded  with  lamps  and  icons 
and  candelabra,  incrusted  with  ornaments  of  gold 
and  silver,  full  of  strange  odours  and  glimmerings  of 
mystic  light.  There,  they  told  us,  in  front  of  that 
rich  altar  was  the  silver  star  which  marked  the  place 
in  the  rock  where  the  Holy  Cross  stood.  And  on 
either  side  of  it  were  the  sockets  which  received  the 
crosses  of  the  two  thieves.  And  a  few  feet  away, 
covered  by  a  brass  slide,  was  the  cleft  in  the  rock 
which  was  made  by  the  earthquake.  It  was  lined 
with  slabs  of  reddish  marble  and  looked  nearly  a 
foot  deep. 

Priests  in  black  robes  and  tall,  cylindrical  hats,  and 
others  with  brown  robes,  rope  girdles  and  tonsured 
heads,  were  coming  and  going  around  us.  Pilgrims 
were  climbing  and  descending  the  stairs,  kneeling 
and  murmuring  unintelligible  devotions,  kissing  the 
star  and  the  cleft  in  the  rock  and  the  icons.  Under- 
neath us,  though  we  were  supposed  to  stand  on  the 
hill  called  Golgotha,  were  the  offices  of  the  Greek 
clergy  and  the  Chapel  of  Adam. 

We  went  around  from  chapel  to  chapel;   into  the 
115 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

opulent  Greek  cathedral  where  they  show  the  "Cen- 
tre of  the  World";  into  the  bare  little  Chapel  of  the 
Syrians  where  they  show  the  tombs  of  Nicodemus 
and  Joseph  of  Arimathsea;  into  the  Chapel  of  the 
Apparition  where  the  Franciscans  say  that  Christ 
appeared  to  His  mother  after  the  resurrection. 
There  was  sweet  singing  in  this  chapel  and  a  fra- 
grant smell  of  incense.  We  went  into  the  Chapel  of 
Saint  Helena,  underground,  which  belongs  to  the 
Greeks;  into  the  Chapel  of  the  Parting  of  the  Rai- 
ment which  belongs  to  the  Armenians.  We  were 
impartial  in  our  visitation,  but  we  did  not  have  time 
to  see  the  Abyssinian  Chapel,  the  Coptic  Chapel  of 
Saint  Michael,  nor  the  Church  of  Abraham  where 
the  Anglicans  are  allowed  to  celebrate  the  eucharist 
twice  a  month. 

The  centre  of  all  this  maze  of  creeds,  ceremonies 
and  devotions  is  the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
a  little  edifice  of  precious  marbles,  carved  and  gilded, 
standing  beneath  the  great  dome  of  the  church,  in 
the  middle  of  a  rotunda  surrounded  by  marble  pil- 
lars. We  bought  and  lighted  our  waxen  tapers  and 
waited  for  a  lull  in  the  stream  of  pilgrims  to  enter 
116 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

the  shrine.  First  we  stood  in  the  vestibule  with  its 
tall  candelabra;  then  in  the  Angels'  Chapel,  with 
its  fifteen  swinging  lamps,  making  darkness  visible; 
then,  stooping  through  a  low  doorway,  we  came  into 
the  tiny  chamber,  six  feet  square,  which  is  said  to 
contain  the  rock-hewn  tomb  in  which  the  Saviour  of 
the  World  was  buried. 

Mass  is  celebrated  here  daily  by  different  Chris- 
tian sects.  Pilgrims,  rich  and  poor,  come  hither 
from  all  parts  of  the  habitable  globe.  They  kneel 
beneath  the  three-and-forty  pendent  lamps  of  gold 
and  silver.  They  kiss  the  worn  slab  of  marble  which 
covers  the  tombstone,  some  of  them  smiling  with 
joy,  some  of  them  weeping  bitterly,  some  of  them 
with  quiet,  business-like  devotion  as  if  they  were  per- 
forming a  duty.  The  priest  of  their  faith  blesses 
them,  sprinkles  the  relics  which  they  lay  on  the 
altar  with  holy  water,  and  one  by  one  the  pilgrims 
retire  backward  through  the  low  portal. 

I  saw  a  Russian  peasant,  sad-eyed,  wrinkled,  bent 

with  many  sorrows,  lay  his  cheek  silently  on  the 

tombstone  with  a  look  on  his  face  as  if  he  were  a 

child  leaning  against  his  mother's  breast.    I  saw  a 

117 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

little  barefoot  boy  of  Jerusalem,  with  big,  serious 
eyes,  come  quickly  in,  and  try  to  kiss  the  stone;  but 
it  was  too  high  for  him,  so  he  kissed  his  hand  and 
laid  it  upon  the  altar.  I  saw  a  young  nun,  hardly 
more  than  a  girl,  slender,  pale,  dark-eyed,  with  a 
noble  Italian  face,  shaken  with  sobs,  the  tears  run- 
ning down  her  cheeks,  as  she  bent  to  touch  her  lips 
to  the  resting-place  of  the  Friend  of  Sinners. 

This,  then,  is  the  way  in  which  the  craving  for 
penitence,  for  reverence,  for  devotion,  for  some 
utterance  of  the  nameless  thirst  and  passion  of  the 
soul  leads  these  pilgrims.  This  is  the  form  in  which 
the  divine  mystery  of  sacrificial  sorrow  and  death 
appeals  to  them,  speaks  to  their  hearts  and  comforts 
them. 

Could  any  Christian  of  whatever  creed,  could  any 
son  of  woman  with  a  heart  to  feel  the  trouble  and 
longing  of  humanity,  turn  his  back  upon  that  altar  ? 
Must  I  not  go  away  from  that  mysterious  little  room 
as  the  others  had  gone,  with  my  face  toward  the 
stone  of  remembrance,  stooping  through  the  lowly 
door? 

And  yet — and  yet  in  my  deepest  heart  I  was 
118 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

thirsty  for  the  open  air,  the  blue  sky,  the  pure  sun- 
light, the  tranquillity  of  large  and  silent  spaces. 

The  Lady  went  with  me  across  the  crowded  quad- 
rangle into  the  cool,  clean,  quiet  German  Church  of 
the  Redeemer.  We  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  lofty 
bell  tower. 

Jerusalem  lay  at  our  feet,  with  its  network  of 
streets  and  lanes,  archways  and  convent  walls,  domes 
small  and  great — the  black  Dome  of  the  Rock  in 
the  centre  of  its  wide  inclosure,  the  red  dome  and 
the  green  dome  of  the  Jewish  synagogues  on  Mount 
Zion,  the  seven  gilded  domes  of  the  Russian  Church 
of  Saint  Mary  Magdalen,  a  hundred  tiny  domes  of 
dwelling-houses,  and  right  in  front  of  us  the  yellow 
dome  of  the  Greek  "Centre  of  the  World"  and  the 
black  dome  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

The  quadrangle  was  still  full  of  people  buying  and 
selling,  but  the  murmur  of  their  voices  was  faint  and 
far  away,  less  loud  than  the  twittering  of  the  thou- 
sands of  swallows  that  soared  and  circled,  with 
glistening  of  innumerable  blue-black  wings  and  soft 
sheen  of  white  breasts,  in  the  tender  light  of  sunset 
above  the  facade  of  the  gray  old  church. 
119 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

Westward  the  long  ridge  of  Olivet  was  bathed  in 
the  rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

Northward,  beyond  the  city-gate,  the  light  fell 
softly  on  a  little  rocky  hill,  shaped  like  a  skull,  the 
ancient  place  of  stoning  for  those  whom  the  cruel 
city  had  despised  and  rejected  and  cast  out.  At  the 
foot  of  that  eminence  there  is  a  quiet  garden  and  a 
tomb  hewn  in  the  rock.  Rosemary  and  rue  grow 
there,  roses  and  lilies;  birds  sing  among  the  trees. 
Is  not  that  little  rounded  hill,  still  touched  with 
the  free  light  of  heaven,  still  commanding  a  clear 
outlook  over  the  city  to  the  Mount  of  Olives — is 
not  that  the  true  Golgotha,  where  Christ  was  lifted 
up? 

As  we  were  thinking  of  this  we  saw  a  man  come  out 
on  the  roof  of  the  Greek  "  Centre  of  the  World,"  and 
climb  by  a  ladder  up  the  side  of  the  huge  dome.  He 
went  slowly  and  carefully,  yet  with  confidence,  as  if 
the  task  were  familiar.  He  carried  a  lantern  in  one 
hand.  He  was  going  to  the  top  of  the  dome  to  light 
up  the  great  cross  for  the  night.  We  spoke  no  word, 
but  each  knew  the  thought  that  was  in  the  other's 
heart. 

120 


THE    SEPULCHRE 

Wherever  the  crucifixion  took  place,  it  was  surely 
in  the  open  air,  beneath  the  wide  sky,  and  the  cross 
that  stood  on  Golgotha  has  become  the  light  at  the 
centre  of  the  world's  night. 


121 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  UNSEEN  ALTAR 

Man  the  maker  of  cities  is  also  a  builder  of  altars: 
Among  his  habitations  he  setteth  tables  for  his  god. 

He  bringeth  the  beauty  of  the  rocks  to  enrich  them,} 
Marble  and  alabaster,  porphyry,  jasper  and  jade. 

He  cometh  with  costly  gifts  to  offer  an  oblation: 

He  would  buy  favour  with  the  fairest  of  his  flock. 

Around  the  many  altars  I  hear  strange  music  arising: 
Loud  lamentations  and   shouting  and   singing    and 
sighs. 

I  perceive  also  the  pain  and  terror  of  their  sacrifices: 
I  see  the  white  marble  wet  with  tears  and  with  blood. 

Then   I   said,    These   are  the   altars   of  ignorance: 
Yet  they  are  built  by  thy  children,  O  God,  who  know 
thee  not. 

Surely  thou  wilt  have  pity  upon  them  and  lead  them: 

Hast  thou  not  prepared  for  them  a  table  of  peace? 

122 


Then  the  Lord  mercifully  sent  his  angel  forth  to  lead 
me: 

He  led   me   through    the   temples,   the   holy    place 
that  is  hidden. 

Loy  there  are  multitudes  kneeling  in  the  silence  of 

the  spirit: 
They  are  kneeling  at  the  unseen  altar  of  the  lowly 

heart. 

Here  is  plentiful  forgiveness  for  the  souls  that  are 

forgiving: 
And  the  joy  of  life  is  given  unto  all  who  long  to 

give. 

Here  a  Father's  hand  upholdeth  all  who  bear  each 

other's  burdens: 
And    the    benediction   falleth   upon   all   who    pray 

in  love. 

Surely   this   is   the    altar    where  the    penitent  find 

pardon: 
And  the  priest  who  hath    blessed  it  forever  is  the 

Holy  One  of  God. 


123 


VII 
JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 


"GOING  DOWN  TO   JERICHO" 

1.N  the  memory  of  every  visitor  to  Jerusalem  the 
excursion  to  Jericho  is  a  vivid  point.  For  this  is  the 
one  trip  which  everybody  makes,  and  it  is  a  conven- 
tion of  the  route  to  regard  it  as  a  perilous  and  excit- 
ing adventure.  Perhaps  it  is  partly  this  flavour  of 
a  not-too-dangerous  danger,  this  shivering  charm  of 
a  hazard  to  be  taken  without  too  much  risk,  that 
attracts  the  average  tourist,  prudently  romantic,  to 
make  the  journey  to  the  lowest  inhabited  town  in 
the  world. 

Jericho  has  always  had  an  ill  name.  Weak  walls, 
weak  hearts,  weak  morals  were  its  early  marks. 
Sweltering  on  the  rich  plain  of  the  lower  Jordan, 
eight  hundred  feet  below  the  sea,  at  the  entrance  of 
the  two  chief  passes  into  the  Judean  highlands,  it 
was  too  indolent  or  cowardly  to  maintain  its  own 
importance.  Stanley  called  it  "  the  key  of  Palestine  " ; 
but  it  was  only  a  latch  which  any  bold  invader  could 
127 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

lift.  The  people  of  Jericho  were  famous  for  light 
fingers  and  lively  feet,  great  robbers  and  runners- 
away.  Joshua  blotted  the  city  out  with  a  curse;  five 
centuries  later  Hiel  the  Bethelite  rebuilt  it  with  the 
bloody  sacrifice  of  his  two  sons.  Antony  gave  it  to 
Cleopatra,  and  Herod  bought  it  from  her  for  a  winter 
palace,  where  he  died.  Nothing  fine  or  brave,  so  far  as 
I  can  remember,  is  written  of  any  of  its  inhabitants, 
except  the  good  deed  of  Rahab,  a  harlot,  and  the  hon- 
est conduct  of  Zacchseus,  a  publican.  To  this  day, 
at  the  tables  d'hote  of  Jerusalem  the  name  of  Jericho 
stirs  up  a  little  whirlwind  of  bad  stories  and  warn- 
ings. 

Last  night  we  were  dining  with  friends  at  one  of 
the  hotels,  and  the  usual  topic  came  up  for  discus- 
sion. Imagine  what  followed. 

"That  Jericho  road  is  positively  frightful,"  says 
a  British  female  tourist  in  lace  cap,  lilac  ribbons  and 
a  maroon  poplin  dress,  "the  heat  is  most  extr'or- 
dinary!" 

"No  food  fit  to  eat  at  the  hotel,"  grumbles  her 
husband,  a  rosy,  bald-headed  man  in  plaid  knick- 
erbockers, "no  bottled  beer;   beastly  little  hole!" 
128 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

"A  voyage  of  the  most  fatiguing,  of  the  most  per- 
ilous, I  assure  you,"  says  a  little  Frenchman  with  a 
forked  beard.  "But  I  rejoice  myself  of  the  advent- 
ure, of  the  romance  accomplished." 

"I  want  to  know,"  piped  a  lady  in  a  green  shirt- 
waist from  Andover,  Mass.,  "is  there  really  and  truly 
any  danger?" 

"I  guess  not  for  us,"  answers  the  dominating  voice 
of  the  conductor  of  her  party.  "There's  always  a 
bunch  of  robbers  on  that  road,  but  I  have  hired  the 
biggest  man  of  the  bunch  to  take  care  of  us.  Just 
wait  till  you  see  that  dandy  Sheikh  in  his  best 
clothes;  he  looks  like  a  museum  of  old  weapons." 

"Have  you  heard,"  interposed  a  lady-like  clergy- 
man on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  with  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  gleaming  above  his  high,  black  waistcoat, 
"what  happened  on  the  Jericho  road,  week  before 
last?  An  English  gentleman,  of  very  good  family, 
imprudently  taking  a  short  cut,  became  separated 
from  his  companions.  The  Bedouins  fell  upon  him, 
beat  him  quite  painfully,  deprived  him  of  his  watch 
and  several  necessary  garments,  and  left  him  pros- 
trate upon  the  earth,  in  an  embarrassingly  denuded 
129 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

condition  Just  fancy!  Was  it  not  perfectly  shock- 
ing?" (The  clergyman's  voice  was  full  of  delicious 
horror.)  "But,  after  all,"  he  resumed  with  a  beam- 
ing smile,  "it  was  most  scriptural,  you  know,  quite 
like  a  Providential  confirmation  of  Holy  Writ!" 

"Most  unpleasant  for  the  Englishman,"  growls 
the  man  in  knickerbockers.  "But  what  can  you 
expect  under  this  rotten  Turkish  government?" 

"I  know  a  story  about  Jericho,"  begins  a  gentle- 
man from  Colorado,  with  a  hay-coloured  moustache 
and  a  droop  in  his  left  eyelid — and  then  follows  a 
series  of  tales  about  that  ill-reputed  town  and  the 
road  thither,  which  leave  the  lady  in  the  lace  cap 
gasping,  and  the  man  with  the  forked  beard  visibly 
swelling  with  pride  at  having  made  the  journey,  and 
the  little  woman  in  the  green  shirt-waist  quivering 
with  exquisite  fears  and  mentally  clinging  with  both 
arms  to  the  personal  conductor  of  her  party,  who 
looks  becomingly  virile,  and  exchanges  a  surrepti- 
tious wink  with  the  gentleman  from  Colorado. 

Of  course,  I  am  not  willing  to  make  an  affidavit 
to  the  correctness  of  every  word  in  this  conversation ; 
but  I  can  testify  that  it  fairly  represents  the  Jericho- 
130 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

motif  as  you  may  hear  it  played  almost  any  night  in 
the  Jerusalem  hotels.  It  sounded  to  us  partly  like 
an  echo  of  ancient  legends  kept  alive  by  dragomans 
and  officials  for  purposes  of  revenue,  and  partly  like 
an  outcrop  of  the  hysterical  habit  in  people  who 
travel  in  flocks  and  do  nothing  without  much 
palaver.  In  our  quiet  camp,  George  the  Bethle- 
hemite  assured  us  that  the  sheikhs  were  "humbugs," 
and  an  escort  of  soldiers  a  nuisance.  So  we  placidly 
made  our  preparations  to  ride  on  the  morrow,  with 
no  other  safeguards  than  our  friendly  dispositions 
and  a  couple  of  excellent  American  revolvers. 

But  it  was  no  brief  'Ausflug  to  Jericho  and  return 
that  we  had  before  us:  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
long  and  steady  ride,  weeks  in  the  saddle,  from  six 
to  nine  hours  a  day. 

Imagine  us  then,  morning  after  morning,  mount- 
ing somewhere  between  six  and  eight  o'clock,  ac- 
cording to  the  weather  and  the  length  of  the  jour- 
ney, and  jingling  out  of  camp,  followed  at  a  discreet 
distance  by  Youssouf  on  his  white  pony  with  the 
luncheon,  and  Paris  on  his  tiny  donkey,  Tiddly- 
winks.  About  noon,  sometimes  a  little  earlier, 
131 


JERICHO     AND    JORDAN 

sometimes  a  little  later,  the  white  pony  catches  up 
with  us,  and  the  tent  and  the  rugs  are  spread  for  the 
midday  meal  and  the  siesta.  It  may  be  in  our 
dreams,  or  while  the  Lady  is  reading  from  some 
pleasant  book,  or  while  the  smoke  of  the  after- 
noon pipe  of  peace  is  ascending,  that  we  hear  the 
musical  bells  of  our  long  baggage-train  go  by  us  on 
the  way  to  our  night-quarters. 

The  evening  ride  is  always  shorter  than  the  morn- 
ing, sometimes  only  an  hour  or  two  in  the  saddle; 
and  at  the  end  of  it  there  is  the  surprise  of  a  new 
camp  ground,  the  comfortable  tents,  the  refreshing 
bath  tub,  the  quiet  dinner  by  sunset-glow  or  candle- 
light. Then  a  bit  of  friendly  talk  over  the  walnuts 
and  the  "Treasure  of  Zion";  a  cup  of  fragrant 
Turkish  coffee;  and  George  enters  the  door  of  the 
tent  to  report  on  the  condition  of  things  in  general, 
and  to  discuss  the  plan  of  the  next  day's  journey. 


132 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 


IT  is  strange  how  every  day,  no  matter  in  what 
mood  of  merry  jesting  or  practical  modernity  we  set 
out,  an  hour  of  riding  in  the  open  air  brings  us  back 
to  the  mystical  charm  of  the  Holy  Land  and  beneath 
the  spell  of  its  memories  and  dreams.  The  wild 
hillsides,  the  flowers  of  the  field,  the  shimmering 
olive-groves,  the  brown  villages,  the  crumbling  ruins, 
the  deep-blue  sky,  subdue  us  to  themselves  and 
speak  to  us  "rememberable  things." 

We  pass  down  the  Valley  of  the  Brook  Kidron, 
where  no  water  ever  flows;  and  through  the  crowd 
of  beggars  and  loiterers  and  pilgrims  at  the  cross- 
roads; and  up  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  past  the  wide-spread  Jewish  burying-ground, 
where  we  take  our  last  look  at  the  towers  and  domes 
and  minarets  and  walls  of  Jerusalem.  The  road 
descends  gently,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  to  Beth- 
any, a  disconsolate  group  of  hovels.  The  sweet 
home  of  Mary  and  Martha  is  gone.  It  is  a  waste  of 
time  to  look  at  the  uncertain  ruins  which  are  shown 
133 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

here  as  sacred  sites.  Look  rather  at  the  broad  land- 
scape eastward  and  southward,  the  luminous  blue 
sky,  the  joyful  little  flowers  on  the  rocky  slopes, — 
these  are  unchanged. 

Not  far  beyond  Bethany,  the  road  begins  to  drop, 
with  great  windings,  into  a  deep,  desolate  valley, 
crowded  with  pilgrims  afoot  and  on  donkey-back 
and  in  ramshackle  carriages, — Russians  and  Greeks 
returning  from  their  sacred  bath  in  the  Jordan. 
Here  and  there,  at  first,  we  can  see  a  shepherd  with 
his  flock  upon  the  haggard  hillside. 

"As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In  leprosy." 

Once  the  Patriarch  and  I,  scrambling  on  foot 
down  a  short-cut,  think  we  see  a  Bedouin  waiting  tor 
us  behind  a  rock,  with  his  long  gun  over  his  shoul- 
der; but  it  turns  out  to  be  only  a  brown  little  peasant 
girl,  ragged  and  smiling,  watching  her  score  of  lop- 
eared  goats. 

As  the  valley  descends  the  landscape  becomes 
more  and  more  arid  and  stricken.  The  heat  broods 
over  it  like  a  disease. 

134 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

"I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved,  ignoble  nature;  nothing  throve; 
For  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove!" 

We  might  be  on  the  way  with  Childe  Roland  to 
the  Dark  Tower.  But  instead  we  come,  about  noon, 
through  a  savage  glen  beset  with  blood-red  rocks 
and  honeycombed  with  black  caves  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ravine,  to  the  so-called  "Inn  of  the  Good 
Samaritan.'* 

The  local  colour  of  the  parable  surrounds  us.  Here 
is  a  fitting  scene  for  such  a  drama  of  lawless  violence, 
cowardly  piety,  and  unconventional  mercy.  In 
these  caverns  robbers  could  hide  securely.  On  this 
wild  road  their  victim  might  He  and  bleed  to  death. 
By  these  paths  across  the  glen  the  priest  and  the  Le- 
vite  could  "pass  by  on  the  other  side,"  discreetly 
turning  their  heads  away  from  any  interruption  to 
their  selfish  duties.  And  in  some  such  wayside 
khan  as  this,  standing  like  a  lonely  fortress  among 
the  sun-baked  hills,  the  friendly  half-heathen  from 
Samaria  could  safely  leave  the  stranger  whom  he 
had  rescued,  provided  he  paid  at  least  a  part  of  his 
lodging  in  advance. 

135 


JERICHO   AND    JORDAN 

We  eat  our  luncheon  in  one  of  the  three  big,  dis- 
orderly rooms  of  the  inn,  and  go  on,  in  the  cool  of  the 
afternoon,  toward  Jericho.  The  road  still  descends 
steeply,  among  ragged  and  wrinkled  hills.  On  our 
left  we  look  down  into  the  Wadi  el-Kelt,  a  gloomy 
gorge  five  or  six  hundred  feet  deep,  with  a  stream  of 
living  water  singing  between  its  prison  walls.  Tradi- 
tion calls  this  the  Brook  Cherith,  where  Elijah  hid 
himself  from  Ahab,  and  was  fed  by  Arabs  of  a  tribe 
.  called  "the  Ravens."  But  the  prophet's  hiding- 
place  was  certainly  on  the  other  side  of  the  Jordan, 
and  this  Wadi  is  probably  the  Valley  of  Achor, 
spoken  of  in  the  Book  of  Joshua.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  canon,  half-way  down  the  face  of  the 
precipice,  clings  the  monastery  of  Saint  George,  one 
of  the  pious  penitentiaries  to  which  the  Greek 
Church  assigns  unruly  and  criminal  monks. 

As  we  emerge  from  the  narrow  valley  a  great  view 
opens  before  us:  to  the  right,  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Dead  Sea,  like  a  mirror  of  burnished  steel;  in  front, 
the  immense  plain  of  the  Jordan,  with  the  dark- 
green  ribbon  of  the  river-jungle  winding  through  its 
length  and  the  purple  mountains  of  Gilead  and 
136 


Great  Monastery  of  St.  George. 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

Moab  towering  beyond  it;  to  the  left,  the  furrowed 
gray  and  yellow  ridges  and  peaks  of  the  northern 
"wilderness"  of  Judea,  the  wild  country  into  which 
Jesus  retired  alone  after  the  baptism  by  John  in  the 
Jordan. 

One  of  these  peaks,  the  Quarantana,  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  "high  mountain"  from  which 
the  Tempter  showed  Jesus  the  "kingdoms  of  the 
world."  In  the  foreground  of  that  view,  sweeping 
from  the  snowy  summits  of  Hermon  in  the  north, 
past  the  Greek  cities  of  Pella  and  Scythopolis,  down 
the  vast  valley  with  its  wealth  of  palms  and  balsams, 
must  have  stood  the  Roman  city  of  Jericho,  with  its 
imperial  farms  and  the  palaces,  baths  and  theatres 
of  Herod  the  Great, — a  visible  image  of  what  Christ 
might  have  won  for  Himself  if  He  had  yielded  to  the 
temptation  and  turned  from  the  pathway  of  spiritual 
light  to  follow  the  shadows  of  earthly  power  and 
glory. 

Herod's  Jericho  has  vanished;    there  is  nothing 

left  of  it  but  the  outline  of  one  of  the  great  pools 

which  he  built  to  irrigate  his  gardens.    The  modern 

Jericho  is  an  unhappy  little  adobe  village,  lying  a 

137 


JERICHO     AND    JORDAN 

mile  or  so  farther  to  the  east.  A  mile  to  the  north, 
near  a  copious  fountain  of  pure  water,  called  the 
Sultan's  Spring,  is  the  site  of  the  oldest  Jericho, 
which  Joshua  conquered  and  Hiel  rebuilt.  The 
spring,  which  is  probably  the  same  that  Elisha 
cleansed  with  salt  (II  Kings  ii:  19-22),  sends  forth 
a  merry  stream  to  turn  a  mill  and  irrigate  a  group  of 
gardens  full  of  oranges,  figs,  bananas,  grapes,  feath- 
ery bamboos  and  rosy  oleanders.  But  the  ancient 
city  is  buried  under  a  great  mound  of  earth,  which 
the  German  Palastina-Verein  is  now  excavating. 

As  we  come  up  to  the  mound  I  pull  out  my  little 
camera  and  prepare  to  take  a  picture  of  the  hundred 
or  so  dusty  Arabs — men,  women  and  children — who 
are  at  work  in  the  trenches.  A  German  gelehrter  in 
a  very  excited  state  rushes  up  to  me  and  calls  upon 
me  to  halt,  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor.  The  taking 
of  pictures  by  persons  not  imperially  authorised  is 
streng  verboten.  He  is  evidently  prepared  to  be  abu- 
sive, if  not  actually  violent,  until  I  assure  him,  in  the 
best  German  that  I  can  command,  that  I  have  no 
political  or  archaeological  intentions,  and  that  if  the 
photographing  of  his  picturesque  work-people  to  him 
138 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

displeasing  is,  I  will  my  camera  immediately  in  its 
pocket  put.  This  mollifies  him,  and  he  politely 
shows  us  what  he  is  doing. 

A  number  of  ruined  houses,  and  a  sort  of  central 
temple,  with  a  rude  flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  it, 
have  been  discovered.  A  portion  of  what  seems  to 
be  the  city-wall  has  just  been  laid  bare.  If  there  are 
any  inscriptions  or  relics  of  any  value  they  are  kept 
secret;  but  there  is  plenty  of  broken  pottery  of  a 
common  kind.  It  is  all  very  poor  and  beggarly  look- 
ing; no  carving  nor  even  any  hewn  stones.  The 
buildings  seem  to  be  of  rubble,  and  "the  walls  of 
Jericho  "  are  little  better  than  the  stone  fences  on  a 
Connecticut  farm.  No  wonder  they  fell  down  at  the 
blast  of  Joshua's  rams'  horns  and  the  rush  of  his 
fierce  tribesmen. 

We  ride  past  the  gardens  and  through  the  shady 
lanes  to  our  camp,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  modern  vil- 
lage. The  air  is  heavy  and  languid,  full  of  relaxing  in- 
fluence, an  air  of  sloth  and  luxury,  seeming  to  belong 
to  some  strange  region  below  the  level  of  human  duty 
and  effort  as  far  as  it  is  below  the  level  of  the  sea. 
The  fragrance  of  the  orange-blossoms,  like  a  subtle 
139 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

incense  of  indulgence,  floats  on  the  evening  breeze. 
Veiled  figures  pass  us  in  the  lanes,  showing  lustrous 
eyes.  A  sound  of  Oriental  music  and  laughter  and 
clapping  hands  comes  from  one  of  the  houses  in  an 
inclosure  hedged  with  acacia-trees.  We  sit  in  the 
door  of  our  tent  at  sundown  and  dream  of  the  van- 
ished palm-groves,  the  gardens  of  Cleopatra,  the 
palaces  of  Herod,  the  soft,  ignoble  history  of  that 
region  of  fertility  and  indolence,  rich  in  harvests, 
poor  in  manhood. 

Then  it  seems  as  if  some  one  were  saying,  "  I  will 
lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
my  help."  There  they  stand,  all  about  us:  east- 
ward, the  great  purple  ranges  of  Gad  and  Reuben, 
from  which  Elijah  the  Tishbite  descended  to  rebuke 
and  warn  Israel;  westward,  against  the  saffron  sky, 
the  ridges  and  peaks  of  Judea,  among  which  Amos 
and  Jeremiah  saw  their  lofty  visions ;  northward,  the 
clear-cut  pinnacle  of  Sartoba,  and  far  away  beyond  it 
the  dim  outlines  of  the  Galilean  hills  from  which  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  came  down  to  open  blind  eyes  and  to 
shepherd  wandering  souls.  With  the  fading  of  the 
sunset  glow  a  deep  blue  comes  upon  all  the  moun- 
140 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

tains,  a  blue  which  strangely  seems  to  grow  paler 
as  the  sky  above  them  darkens,  sinking  down  upon 
them  through  infinite  gradations  of  azure  into  some- 
thing mysterious  and  indescribable,  not  a  color,  not 
a  shadow,  not  a  light,  but  a  secret  hyaline  illumi- 
nation which  transforms  them  into  aerial  battlements 
and  ramparts,  on  whose  edge  the  great  stars  rest  and 
flame,  the  watch-fires  of  the  Eternal. 

Ill 
"PASSING   OVER    JORDAN" 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  why  the  Jordan,  which 
plays  such  an  important  part  in  the  history  of  the 
Hebrews,  receives  so  little  honour  and  praise  in  their 
literature.  Sentimental  travellers  and  poets  of  other 
races  have  woven  a  good  deal  of  florid  prose  and 
verse  about  the  name  of  this  river.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  it  is  the  chief  stream  of  Palestine,  the  only  one,  in 
fact,  that  deserves  to  be  called  a  river.  Yet  the  Bible 
has  no  song  of  loving  pride  for  the  Jordan;  no  ten- 
der and  beautiful  words  to  describe  it;  no  record  of 
the  longing  of  exiled  Jews  to  return  to  the  banks  of 
141 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

their  own  river  and  hear  again  the  voice  of  its  wa- 
ters. At  this  strange  silence  I  have  wondered  much, 
not  knowing  the  reason  of  it.  Now  I  know. 

The  Jordan  is  not  a  little  river  to  be  loved :  it  is  a 
barrier  to  be  passed  over.  From  its  beginning  in  the 
marshes  of  Huleh  to  its  end  in  the  Dead  Sea,  (ex- 
cepting only  the  lovely  interval  of  the  Lake  of  Gal- 
ilee), this  river  offers  nothing  to  man  but  danger  and 
difficulty,  perplexity  and  trouble.  Fierce  and  sullen 
and  intractable,  it  flows  through  a  long  depression, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  it  has  dug  for  itself  a  still 
deeper  crooked  ditch,  along  the  Eastern  border  of 
Galilee  and  Samaria  and  Judea,  as  if  it  wished  to 
cut  them  off  completely.  There  are  no  pleasant 
places  along  its  course,  no  breezy  forelands  where  a 
man  might  build  a  house  with  a  fair  outlook  over 
flowing  water,  no  rich  and  tranquil  coves  where  the 
cattle  would  love  to  graze,  or  stand  knee-deep  in  the 
quiet  stream.  There  is  no  sense  of  leisure,  of  re- 
freshment, of  kind  companionship  and  friendly 
music  about  the  Jordan.  It  is  in  a  hurry  and  a 
secret  rage.  Yet  there  is  something  powerful,  self- 
reliant,  inevitable  about  it.  In  thousands  of  years 
142 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

it  has  changed  less  than  any  river  in  the  world.  It  is 
a  flowing,  everlasting  symbol  of  division,  of  separa- 
tion: a  river  of  solemn  meetings  and  partings  like 
that  of  Elijah  and  Elisha,  of  Jesus  and  John  the 
Baptist:  a  type  of  the  narrow  stream  of  death.  It 
seems  to  say  to  man,  "Cross  me  if  you  will,  if  you 
can;  and  then  go  your  way." 

The  road  that  leads  us  from  Jericho  toward  the 
river  is  pleasant  enough,  at  first,  for  the  early  sun- 
light is  gentle  and  caressing,  and  there  is  a  cool 
breeze  moving  across  the  plain.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  we  are  eight  hundred  feet  below  the  sea  this 
morning,  and  still  travelling  downward.  The  lush 
fields  of  barley,  watered  by  many  channels  from  the 
brook  Kelt,  are  waving  and  glistening  around  us. 
Quails  are  running  along  the  edge  of  the  road,  ap- 
pearing and  disappearing  among  the  thick  grain- 
stalks.  The  bulbuls  warble  from  the  thorn-bushes, 
and  a  crested  hoopoo  croons  in  a  jujube-tree. 
Larks  are  on  the  wing,  scattering  music. 

We  are  on  the  upper  edge  of  that  great  belt  of 
sunken  land  between  the  mountains  of  Gilead  and 
the  mountains  of  Ephraim  and  Judah,  which  reaches 
143 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

from  the  Lake  of  Galilee  to  the  Dead  Sea,  and  which 
the  Arabs  call  El-Ghbr,  the  "Rift."  It  is  a  huge 
trench,  from  three  to  fourteen  miles  wide,  sinking 
from  six  hundred  feet  below  the  level  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, at  the  northern  end,  to  thirteen  hundred  feet 
below,  at  the  southern  end.  The  surface  is  fairly 
level,  sloping  gently  from  each  side  toward  the 
middle,  and  the  soil  is  of  an  inexhaustible  fertility, 
yielding  abundant  crops  wherever  it  is  patiently 
irrigated  from  the  streams  which  flow  out  of  the 
mountains  east  and  west,  but  elsewhere  lying  baked 
and  arid  under  the  heavy,  close,  feverous  air. 
No  strong  race  has  ever  inhabited  this  trench  as  a 
home;  no  great  cities  have  ever  grown  here,  and  its 
civilization,  such  as  it  had,  was  a  hot-bed  product, 
soon  ripe  and  quickly  rotten. 

We  have  passed  beyond  the  region  of  greenness 
already;  the  little  water-brooks  have  ceased  to  gleam 
through  the  grain :  the  wild  grasses  and  weeds  have 
a  parched  and  yellow  look:  the  freshness  of  the 
early  morning  has  vanished,  and  we  are  descending 
through  a  desolate  land  of  sour  and  leprous  hills  of 
clay  and  marl,  eroded  by  the  floods  into  fantastic 
144 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

shapes,  furrowed  and  scarred  and  scabbed  with 
mineral  refuse.  The  gullies  are  steep  and  narrow: 
the  heat  settles  on  them  like  a  curse. 

Through  this  battered  and  crippled  region,  the 
centre  of  the  Jordan  Valley,  runs  the  Jordan  Bed, 
twisting  like  a  big  green  serpent.  A  dense  half- 
tropical  jungle,  haunted  by  wild  beasts  and  poison- 
ous reptiles  and  insects,  conceals,  almost  at  every 
point,  the  down -rushing,  swirling,  yellow  flood. 

It  has  torn  and  desolated  its  own  shores  with  sud- 
den spates.  The  feet  of  the  pilgrims  who  bathe  in  it 
sink  into  the  mud  as  they  wade  out  waist-deep,  and 
if  they  venture  beyond  the  shelter  of  the  bank  the 
whirling  eddies  threaten  to  sweep  them  away.  The 
fords  are  treacherous,  with  shifting  bottom  and 
changing  currents.  The  poets  and  prophets  of  the 
Old  Testament  give  us  a  true  idea  of  this  uninhabit- 
able and  unlovable  river-bed  when  they*  speak  of 
"the  pride  of  Jordan,"  "the  swellings  of  Jordan," 
where  the  lion  hides  among  the  reeds  in  his  secret 
lair,  a  "refuge  of  lies,"  which  the  "overflowing 
scourge"  shall  sweep  away. 

No,  it  was  not  because  the  Jordan  was  beautiful 
145 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

that  John  the  Baptist  chose  it  as  the  scene  of  his 
preaching  and  ministry,  but  because  it  was  wild  and 
rude,  an  emblem  of  violent  and  sudden  change,  of 
irrevocable  parting,  of  death  itself,  and  because  in 
its  one  gift  of  copious  and  unfailing  water,  he  found 
the  necessary  element  for  his  deep  baptism  of  re- 
pentance, in  which  the  sinful  past  of  the  crowd  who 
followed  him  was  to  be  symbolically  immersed  and 
buried  and  washed  away. 

At  the  place  where  we  reach  the  water  there  is  an 
open  bit  of  ground;  a  miserable  hovel  gives  shelter 
to  two  or  three  Turkish  soldiers;  an  ungainly  lat- 
ticed bridge,  stilted  on  piles  of  wood,  straddles  the 
river  with  a  single  span.  The  toll  is  three  piastres, 
(about  twelve  cents,)  for  a  man  and  horse. 

The  only  place  from  which  I  can  take  a  photo- 
graph of  the  river  is  the  bridge  itself,  so  I  thrust  the 
camera  through  one  of  the  diamond-shaped  open- 
ings on  the  lattice-work  and  try  to  make  a  truthful 
record  of  the  lower  Jordan  at  its  best.  Imagine  the 
dull  green  of  the  tangled  thickets,  the  ragged  clumps 
of  reeds  and  water-grasses,  the  sombre  and  silent 
flow  of  the  fulvous  water  sliding  and  curling  down 
146 


JERICHO    AND    JORDAN 

out  of  the  jungle,  and  the  implacable  fervour  of  the 
pallid,  searching  sunlight  heightening  every  touch 
of  ugliness  and  desolation,  and  you  will  understand 
why  the  Hebrew  poets  sang  no  praise  of  the  Jordan, 
and  why  Naaman  the  Syrian  thought  scorn  of  it 
when  he  remembered  the  lovely  and  fruitful  rivers  of 
Damascus. 


147 


A  PSALM  OF  RIVERS 

The  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water: 

They  are  wonderful  in  the  renewal  of  their  strength: 

He  poureth  them  out  from  a  hidden  fountain. 

They  are  born  among  the  hills  in  the  high  places: 
Their  cradle  is  in  the  bosom  of  the  rocks: 
The  mountain  is  their  mother  and  ilw  forest  is  their 
father. 

They  are  nourished  among  the  long  grasses: 
They  receive  the  tribute  of  a  thousand  springs: 
The  rain  and  the  snow  are  a  heritage  for  them. 

They  are  glad  to  be  gone  from  their  birthplace: 
With  a  joyful  noise  they  hasten  away: 
They  are  going  forever  and  never  departed. 

The  courses  of  the  rivers  are  all  appointed: 
They  roar  loudly  but  they  follow  the  road: 
The  finger  of  God  hath  marked  their  pathway. 

The  rivers  of  Damascus  rejoice  among  their  gardens: 
The  great  river  of  Egypt  is  proud  of  his  ships: 
The  Jordan  is  lost  in  the  Lake  of  Bitterness. 
148 


Surely  the  Lord  guideth  them  every  one  in  his  wisdom: 

In  the  end  he  gathereth  all  their  drops  on  high: 

He  sendeth  them  forth  again  in  the  clouds  of  mercy. 

O  my  God,  my  life  rvnncth  away  like  a  river: 
Guide  me,  I  beseech  thee,  in  a  pathway  of  good: 
Let  me  flow  in  blessing  to  my  rest  in  thee. 


149 


VIII 
A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 


THROUGH    THE    LAND    OF    GILEAD 

I  NEVER  heard  of  Jerash  until  my  friend  the 
Archaeologist  told  me  about  it,  one  night  when  we 
were  sitting  beside  my  study  fire  at  Avalon.  "It  is 
the  site  of  the  old  city  of  Gerasa,"  said  he.  "The 
most  satisfactory  ruins  that  I  have  ever  seen." 

There  was  something  suggestive  and  potent  in 
that  phrase,  "satisfactory  ruins."  For  what  is  it 
that  weaves  the  charm  of  ruins  ?  What  do  we  ask 
of  them  to  make  their  magic  complete  and  satisfy- 
ing ?  There  must  be  an  element  of  picturesqueness, 
certainly,  to  take  the  eye  with  pleasure  in  the  con- 
trast between  the  frailty  of  man's  works  and  the  im- 
perishable loveliness  of  nature.  There  must  a.lso  be 
an  element  of  age;  for  new  ruins  are  painful,  dis- 
quieting, intolerable;  they  speak  of  violence  and 
disorder;  it  is  not  until  the  bloom  of  antiquity  gath- 
ers upon  them  that  the  relics  of  vast  and  splendid 
edifices  attract  us  and  subdue  us  with  a  spell,  breath- 
153 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

ing  tranquillity  and  noble  thoughts.  There  must 
also  be  an  element  of  magnificence  in  decay,  of  sym- 
metry broken  but  not  destroyed,  a  touch  of  delicate 
art  and  workmanship,  to  quicken  the  imagination 
and  evoke  the  ghost  of  beauty  haunting  her  ancient 
habitations.  And  beyond  these  things  I  think  there 
must  be  two  more  qualities  in  a  ruin  that  satisfies 
us:  a  clear  connection  with  the  greatness  and  glory 
of  the  past,  with  some  fine  human  achievement, 
with  some  heroism  of  men  dead  and  gone;  and  last 
of  all,  a  spirit  of  mystery,  the  secret  of  some  unex- 
plained catastrophe,  the  lost  link  of  a  story  never  to 
be  fully  told. 

This,  or  something  like  it,  was  what  the  Archae- 
ologist's phrase  seemed  to  promise  me  as  we  watched 
the  glowing  embers  on  the  hearth  of  Avalon.  And  it 
is  this  promise  that  has  drawn  me,  with  my  three 
friends,  on  this  April  day  into  the  Land  of  Gilead, 
riding  to  Jerash. 

The  grotesque  and  rickety  bridge  by  which  we 

have  crossed  the  Jordan  soon  disappears  behind  us, 

as  we  trot  along  the  winding  bridle-path  through  the 

river-jungle,  in  the  stifling  heat.    Coming  out  on  the 

154 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

open  plain,  which  rises  gently  toward  the  east,  we 
startle  great  flocks  of  storks  into  the  air,  and  they 
swing  away  in  languid  circles,  dappling  the  blaze  of 
morning  with  their  black-tipped  wings.  Grotesque, 
ungainly,  gothic  birds,  they  do  not  seem  to  belong  to 
the  Orient,  but  rather  to  have  drifted  hither  out  of 
some  quaint,  familiar  fairy  tale  of  the  North;  and 
indeed  they  are  only  transient  visitors  here,  and  will 
soon  be  on  their  way  to  build  their  nests  on  the  roofs 
of  German  villages  and  clapper  their  long,  yellow 
bills  over  the  joy  of  houses  full  of  little  children. 

The  rains  of  spring  have  spread  a  thin  bloom  of 
green  over  the  plain.  Tender  herbs  and  light 
grasses  partly  veil  the  gray  and  stony  ground. 
There  is  a  month  of  scattered  feeding  for  the  flocks 
and  herds.  Away  to  the  south,  where  the  foot-hills 
begin  to  roll  up  suddenly  from  the  Jordan,  we  can 
see  a  black  line  of  Bedouin  tents  quivering  through 
the  heat. 

Now  the  trail  divides,  and  we  take  the  northern 
fork,  turning  soon  into  the  open  mouth  of  the  Wadi 
Shaib,  a  broad,  grassy  valley  between  high  and  tree- 
less hills.  The  watercourse  that  winds  down  the 
155 


A    JOURNEY   TO    JERASH 

middle  of  it  is  dry:  nothing  but  a  tumbled  bed  of 
gray  rocks, — the  bare  bones  of  a  little  river.  But  as 
we  ascend  slowly  the  flowers  increase;  wild  holly- 
hocks, and  morning-glories,  and  clumps  of  blue 
anchusa,  and  scarlet  adonis,  and  tall  wands  of  white 
asphodel. 

The  morning  grows  hotter  and  hotter  as  we  plod 
along.  Presently  we  come  up  with  three  mounted 
Arabs,  riding  leisurely.  Salutations  are  exchanged 
with  gravity.  Then  the  Arabs  whisper  something 
to  each  other  and  spur  away  at  a  great  pace  ahead 
of  us — laughing.  Why  did  they  laugh  ? 

Ah,  now  we  know.  For  here  is  a  lofty  cliff  on  one 
side  of  the  valley,  hanging  over  just  far  enough  to 
make  a  strip  of  cool  shade  at  its  base,  with  ferns  and 
deep  grass  and  a  glimmer  of  dripping  water.  And 
here  our  wise  Arabs  are  sitting  at  their  ease  to  eat 
their  mid-day  meal  under  "the  shadow  of  a  great 
rock  in  a  weary  land." 

Vainly  we  search  the  valley  for  another  rock  like 

that.     It  is  the  only  one;    and  the  Arabs  laughed 

because  they  knew  it.    We  must  content  ourselves 

with  this  little  hill  where  a  few  hawthorn  bushes 

156 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

offer  us  tiny  islets  of  shade,  beset  with  thorns,  and 
separated  by  straits  of  intolerable  glare.  Here  we 
eat  a  little,  but  without  comfort;  and  sleep  a  little, 
but  without  refreshment;  and  talk  a  little,  but  rest- 
lessly. As  soon  as  we  dare,  we  get  into  the  saddle 
again  and  toil  up  through  the  valley,  now  narrowing 
into  a  rugged  gorge,  crammed  with  ardent  heat. 
The  sprinkling  of  trees  and  bushes,  the  multitude  of 
flowers,  assure  us  that  there  must  be  moisture  under- 
ground, along  the  bed  of  the  stream;  but  above 
ground  there  is  not  a  drop,  and  not  a  breath  of  wind 
to  break  the  dead  calm  of  the  smothering  air.  Why 
did  we  come  into  this  heat-trap  ? 

But  presently  the  ravine  leads  us,  by  steep  stairs 
of  rock,  up  to  a  high,  green  table-land.  A  heavenly 
breeze  from  the  west  is  blowing  here.  The  fields  are 
full  of  flowers — red  anemones,  white  and  yellow 
daisies,  pink  flax,  little  blue  bell-flowers — a  hundred 
kinds.  One  knoll  is  covered  with  cyclamens;  an- 
other with  splendid  purple  iris,  immense  blossoms, 
so  dark  that  they  look  almost  black  against  the 
grass;  but  hold  them  up  to  the  sun  and  you  will  see 
the  imperial  colour.  We  have  never  found  such 
157 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

wild  flowers,  not  even  on  the  Plain  of  Sharon;  the 
hills  around  Jerusalem  were  but  sparsely  adorned  in 
comparison  with  these  highlands  of  bloom. 

And  here  are  oak-trees,  broad-limbed  and  friendly, 
clothed  in  glistening  green.  Let  us  rest  for  a  while 
in  this  cool  shade  and  forget  the  misery  of  the  blaz- 
ing noon.  Below  us  lies  the  gray  Jordan  valley  and 
the  steel-blue  mirror  of  the  Dead  Sea;  and  across  that 
gulf  we  see  the  furrowed  mountains  of  Judea  and 
Samaria,  and  far  to  the  north  the  peaks  of  Galilee. 
Around  us  is  the  Land  of  Gilead,  a  rolling  hill- 
country,  with  long  ridges  and  broad  summits,  a 
rounded  land,  a  verdurous  land,  a  land  of  rich  past- 
urage. There  are  deep  valleys  that  cut  into  it  and 
divide  it  up.  But  the  main  bulk  of  it  is  lifted  high 
in  the  air,  and  spread  out  nobly  to  the  visitations  of 
the  wind.  And  see — far  away  there,  to  the  south, 
across  the  Wadi  Nimrin,  a  mountainside  covered 
with  wild  trees,  a  real  woodland,  almost  a  forest! 

Now  we  must  travel  on,  for  it  is  still  a  long  way  to 

our  night-quarters  at  Es  Salt.     We  pass  several 

Bedouin  camps,  the  only  kind  of  villages  in  this 

part  of  the  world.  The  tents  of  goat's-hair  are  swarm- 

158 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

ing  with  life.  A  score  of  ragged  Arab  boys  are 
playing  hockey  on  the  green  with  an  old  donkey's 
hoof  for  a  ball.  They  yell  with  refreshing  vigour, 
just  like  universal  human  boys. 

The  trail  grows  steeper  and  more  rocky,  ascend- 
ing apparently  impossible  places,  and  winding  peril- 
ously along  the  cliffs  above  little  vineyards  and 
cultivated  fields  where  men  are  ploughing.  Travel 
and  traffic  increase  along  this  rude  path,  which  is 
the  only  highway :  evidently  we  are  coming  near  to 
some  place  of  importance. 

But  where  is  Es  Salt?  For  nine  hours  we  have 
been  in  the  saddle,  riding  steadily  toward  that  mys- 
terious metropolis  of  the  Belka,  the  only  living  city 
in  the  Land  of  Gilead;  and  yet  there  is  no  trace  of  it 
in  sight.  Have  we  missed  the  trail  ?  The  mule-train 
with  our  tents  and  baggage  passed  us  in  the  valley 
while  we  were  sweltering  under  the  hawthorns.  It 
seems  as  if  it  must  have  vanished  into  the  pastoral 
wilderness  and  left  us  travelling  an  endless  road  to 
nowhere. 

At  last  we  top  a  rugged  ridge  and  look  down  upon 
the  solution  of  the  mystery.  Es  Salt  is  a  city  that 
159 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

can  be  hid;  for  it  is  not  set  upon  a  hill,  but  tucked 
away  in  a  valley  that  curves  around  three  sides  of  a 
rocky  eminence,  and  is  sheltered  from  the  view  by 
higher  ranges. 

Who  can  tell  how  this  city  came  here,  hidden 
in  this  hollow  place  almost  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea?  Who  was  its  founder?  What 
was  its  ancient  name?  It  is  a  place  without  tra- 
ditions, without  antiquities,  without  a  shrine  of  any 
kind;  just  a  living  town,  thriving  and  prospering 
in  its  own  dirty  and  dishevelled  way,  in  the  midst 
of  a  country  of  nomads,  growing  in  the  last  twenty 
years  from  six  thousand  to  fifteen  thousand  inhabi- 
tants, driving  a  busy  trade  with  the  surrounding 
country,  exporting  famous  raisins  and  dye-stuff 
made  from  sumach,  the  seat  of  the  Turkish  Govern- 
ment of  the  Belka,  with  a  garrison  and  a  telegraph 
office — decidedly  a  thriving  town  of  to-day;  yef 
without  a  road  by  which  a  carriage  can  approach  it; 
and  old,  unmistakably  old ! 

The  castle  that  crowns  the  eminence  in  the  centre 
is  a  ruin  of  unknown  date.  The  copious  spring  that 
gushes  from  the  castle-hill  must  have  invited  men 
160 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

for  many  centuries  to  build  their  habitations  around 
it.  The  gray  houses  seem  to  have  slipped  and  set- 
tled down  into  the  curving  valley,  and  to  have 
crowded  one  another  up  the  opposite  slopes,  as  if 
hundreds  of  generations  had  found  here  a  hiding- 
place  and  a  city  of  refuge. 

We  ride  through  a  Mohammedan  graveyard — 
unfenced,  broken,  neglected — and  down  a  steep, 
rain-gulleyed  hillside,  into  the  filthy,  narrow  street. 
The  people  all  have  an  Arab  look,  a  touch  of  the 
wildness  of  the  desert  in  their  eyes  and  their  free 
bearing.  There  are  many  fine  figures  and  handsome 
faces,  some  with  auburn  hair  and  a  reddish  hue 
showing  through  the  bronze  of  their  cheeks.  They 
stare  at  us  with  undisguised  curiosity  and  wonder, 
as  if  we  came  from  a  strange  world.  The  swarthy 
merchants  in  the  doors  of  their  little  shops,  the  half- 
veiled  women  in  the  lanes,  the  groups  of  idlers  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  watch  us  with  a  gaze  which 
seems  almost  defiant.  Evidently  tourists  are  a  rarity 
here — perhaps  an  intrusion  to  be  resented. 

We  inquire  whether  our  baggage-train  has  been 
seen,  where  our  camp  is  pitched.  No  one  knows, 
161 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

no  one  cares;  until  at  last  a  ragged,  smiling  urchin, 
one  of  those  blessed,  ubiquitous  boys  who  always 
know  everything  that  happens  in  a  town,  offers  to 
guide  us.  He  trots  ahead,  full  of  importance,  dodg- 
ing through  the  narrow  alleys,  making  the  complete 
circuit  of  the  castle-hill  and  leading  us  to  the  upper 
end  of  the  eastern  valley.  Here,  among  a  few  olive- 
trees  beside  the  road,  our  white  tents  are  standing, 
so  close  to  an  encampment  of  wandering  gypsies  that 
the  tent-ropes  cross. 

Directly  opposite  rises  a  quarter  of  the  town,  tier 
upon  tier  of  flat-roofed  houses,  every  roof-top  covered 
with  people.  A  wild-looking  crowd  of  visitors  have 
gathered  in  the  road.  Two  soldiers,  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  partially  reformed  brigands,  are  acting 
as  our  guard,  and  keeping  the  inquisitive  spectators 
at  a  respectful  distance.  Our  mules  and  donkeys 
and  horses  are  munching  their  supper  in  a  row,  teth- 
ered to  a  long  rope  in  front  of  the  tents.  Shukari, 
the  cook,  in  his  white  cap  and  apron,  is  gravely  intent 
upon  the  operation  of  his  little  charcoal  range. 
Youssouf,  the  major-domo,  is  setting  the  table  with 
flowers  and  lighted  candles  in  the  dining-tent.  After 
162 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

a  while  he  comes  to  the  door  of  our  sleeping-tents  to 
inform  us,  with  due  ceremony,  that  dinner  is  served ; 
and  we  sit  down  to  our  repast  in  the  midst  of  the 
swarming  Edomites  and  the  wandering  Zingari  as 
peacefully  and  properly  as  if  we  were  dining  at  the 
Savoy. 

The  night  darkens  around  us.  Lights  twinkle, 
one  above  another,  up  the  steep  hillside  of  houses; 
above  them  are  the  tranquil  stars,  the  lit  windows  of 
unknown  habitations;  and  on  the  hill-top  one  great 
planet  burns  in  liquid  flame. 

The  crowd  melts  away,  chattering  down  the  road ; 
it  forms  again,  from  another  quarter,  and  again  dis- 
solves. Meaningless  shouts  and  cries  and  songs  re- 
sound from  the  hidden  city.  In  the  gypsy  camp  beside 
us  insomnia  reigns.  A  little  forge  is  clinking  and 
clanking.  Donkeys  raise  their  antiphonal  lament. 
Dogs  salute  the  stars  in  chorus.  First  a  leader,  far 
away, lifts  a  wailing,  howling,  shrieking  note;  then  the 
mysterious  unrest  that  torments  the  bosom  of  Ori- 
ental dogdom  breaks  loose  in  a  hundred,  a  thousand 
answering  voices,  swelling  into  a  yapping,  growling, 
barking,  yelling  discord.  A  sudden  silence  cuts  the 
163 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

tumult  short,  until  once  more  the  unknown  misery, 
(or  is  it  the  secret  joy),  of  the  canine  heart  bursts  out 
in  long-drawn  dissonance. 

From  the  road  and  from  the  tents  of  the  gypsies 
various  human  voices  are  sounding  close  around  us 
all  the  night.  Through  our  confused  dreams  and 
broken  sleep  we  strangely  seem  to  catch  fragments  of 
familiar  speech,  phrases  of  English  or  French  or  Ger- 
man. Then,  waking  and  listening,  we  hear  men 
muttering  and  disputing,  women  complaining  or 
soothing  their  babies,  children  quarrelling  or  calling 
to  each  other,  in  Arabic,  or  Romany — not  a  word 
that,  we  can  understand — voices  that  tell  us  only 
that  we  are  in  a  strange  land,  and  very  far  away 
from  home,  camping  in  the  heart  of  a  wild  city. 


164 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

II 
OVER    THE    BROOK    JABBOK 

AFTER  such  a  night  the  morning  is  welcome,  as  it 
breaks  over  the  eastern  hill  behind  us,  with  rosy  light 
creeping  slowly  down  the  opposite  slope  of  houses. 
Before  the  sunbeams  have  fairly  reached  the  bot- 
tom of  the  valley  we  are  in  the  saddle,  ready  to 
leave  Es  Salt  without  further  exploration. 

There  is  a  general  monotony  about  this  riding 
through  Palestine  which  yet  leaves  room  for  a  par- 
ticular variety  of  the  most  entrancing  kind.  Every 
day  is  like  every  other  in  its  main  outline,  but  the 
details  are  infinitely  uncertain — always  there  is 
something  new,  some  touch  of  a  distinct  and  mem- 
orable charm. 

To-day  it  is  the  sense  of  being  in  the  country  of 
the  nomads,  the  tent-dwellers,  the  masters  of  innu- 
merable flocks  and  herds,  whose  wealth  goes  wander- 
ing from  pasture  to  pasture,  bleating  and  lowing  and 
browsing  and  multiplying  over  the  open  moorland 
beneath  the  blue  sky.  This  is  the  prevailing  im- 
165 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

pression  of  this  day:  and  the  symbol  of  it  is  the  thin, 
quavering  music  of  the  pastoral  pipe,  following  us 
wherever  we  go,  drifting  tremulously  and  plaintively 
down  from  some  rock  on  the  hillside,  or  floating  up 
softly  from  some  hidden  valley,  where  a  brown  shep- 
herd or  goatherd  is  minding  his  flock  with  music. 

What  quaint  and  rustic  melodies  are  these!  Wild 
and  unfamiliar  to  our  ears;  yet  doubtless  the  same 
wandering  airs  that  were  played  by  the  sons  and 
servants  of  Jacob  when  he  returned  from  his  twenty 
years  of  profitable  exile  in  Haran  with  his  rich  wages 
of  sheep  and  goats  and  cattle  and  wives  and  maid- 
servants, the  fruit  of  his  hard  labour  and  shrewd  bar- 
gaining with  his  father-in-law  Laban,  and  passed 
cautiously  through  Gilead  on  his  way  to  the  Prom- 
ised Land. 

On  the  highland  to  the  east  of  Es  Salt  we  see  a 
fine  herd  of  horses,  brood-mares  and  foals.  A  little 
farther  on,  we  come  to  a  muddy  pond  or  tank  at 
which  a  drove  of  asses  are  drinking.  A  steep  and 
winding  path,  full  of  loose  stones,  leads  us  down 
into  a  grassy,  oval  plain,  a  great  cup  of  green,  eight 
or  ten  miles  long  and  five  or  six  miles  wide,  rimmed 
166 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

with  bare  hills  from  five  to  eight  hundred  feet  high. 
This,  we  conjecture,  is  the  fertile  basin  of  El  Buchaia, 
or  Bekaa. 

Bedouin  farmers  are  ploughing  the  rich,  reddish 
soil.  Their  black  tent- villages  are  tucked  away 
against  the  feet  of  the  surrounding  hills.  The  broad 
plain  itself  is  without  sign  of  human  dwelling,  except 
that  near  each  focus  of  the  ellipse  there  is  a  pile  of 
shattered  ruins  with  a  crumbling,  solitary  tower, 
where  a  shepherd  sits  piping  to  his  lop-eared  flock. 

In  one  place  we  pass  through  a  breeding-herd  of 
camels,  browsing  on  the  short  grass.  The  old  ones 
are  in  the  process  of  the  spring  moulting;  their 
thick,  matted  hair  is  peeling  off  in  large  flakes,  like 
fragments  of  a  ragged,  moth-eaten  coat.  The  young 
ones  are  covered  with  pearl-gray  wool,  soft  and  al- 
most downy,  like  gigantic  goslings  with  four  legs. 
(What  is  the  word  for  a  young  camel,  I  wonder;  is 
is  camelet  or  camelot  ?)  But  young  and  old  have  a 
family  resemblance  of  ugliness. 

The  camel  is  the  most  ungainly  and  stupid  of 
God's  useful  beasts — an  awkward  necessity — the 

humpbacked  ship  of  the  desert.     The  Arabs  have 
167 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

a  story  which  runs  thus:  "What  did  Allah  say  when 
He  had  finished  making  the  camel  ?  He  couldn't 
say  anything;  He  just  looked  at  the  camel,  and 
laughed,  and  laughed ! " 

But  in  spite  of  his  ridiculous  appearance  the  camel 
seems  satisfied  with  himself;  in  fact  there  is  an  ex- 
pression of  supreme  contempt  in  his  face  when  he 
droops  his  pendulous  lower  lip  and  wrinkles  his 
nose,  which  has  led  the  Arabs  to  tell  another  story 
about  him:  "Why  does  the  camel  despise  his  mas- 
ter? Because  man  knows  only  the  ninety-nine 
common  names  of  Allah;  but  the  hundredth  name, 
the  wonderful  name,  the  beautiful  name,  is  a  secret 
revealed  to  the  camel  alone.  Therefore  he  scorns 
the  whole  race  of  men." 

The  cattle  that  feed  around  the  edges  of  this  peace- 
ful plain  are  small  and  nimble,  as  if  they  were  used 
to  long,  rough  journeys.  The  prevailing  colour  is 
black,  or  rusty  brown.  They  are  evidently  of  a  de- 
generate and  played-out  stock.  Even  the  heifers  are 
used  for  ploughing,  and  they  look  but  little  larger 
than  the  donkeys  which  are  often  yoked  beside  them. 
They  come  around  the  grassy  knoll  when  our  lunch- 
168 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

eon-tent  is  pitched,  and  stare  at  us  very  much  as  the 
people  stared  in  Es  Salt. 

In  the  afternoon  we  pass  over  the  run  of  the 
broad  vale  and  descend  a  narrower  ravine,  where 
oaks  and  terebinths,  laurels  and  balsams,  pistachios 
and  almonds  are  growing.  The  grass  springs  thick 
and  lush,  tall  weeds  and  trailing  vines  appear,  a 
murmur  of  flowing  water  is  heard  under  the  tangled 
herbage  at  the  bottom  of  the  wadi.  Presently  we  are 
following  a  bright  little  brook,  crossing  and  recrossing 
it  as  it  leads  us  toward  our  camp-ground. 

There  are  the  tents,  standing  in  a  line  on  the 
flowery  bank  of  the  brook,  across  the  water  from  the 
trail.  A  few  steps  lower  down  there  is  a  well-built 
stone  basin  with  a  copious  spring  gushing  into  it 
from  the  hillside  under  an  arched  roof.  Here  the 
people  of  the  village,  (which  is  somewhere  near  us 
on  the  mountain,  but  out  of  sight),  come  to  fill  their 
pitchers  and  water-skins,  and  to  let  their  cattle  and 
donkeys  drink.  All  through  the  late  afternoon  they 
are  coming  and  going,  plashing  through  the  shallow 
ford  below  us,  enjoying  the  cool,  clear  water,  disap- 
pearing along  the  foot-paths  that  lead  among  the  hills. 
169 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

These  are  very  different  cattle  from  the  herds  we 
saw  among  the  Bedouins  a  couple  of  hours  ago ;  fine 
large  creatures,  well  bred  and  well  fed,  some  cream- 
coloured,  some  red,  some  belted  with  white.  And 
these  men  who  follow  them,  on  foot  or  on  horseback, 
truculent  looking  fellows  with  blue  eyes  and  light 
hair  and  broad  faces,  clad  in  long,  close-fitting  tunics, 
with  belts  around  their  waists  and  small  black  caps 
of  fur,  some  of  them  with  high  boots — who  are  they  ? 

They  are  some  of  the  Circassian  immigrants  who 
were  driven  out  of  Russia  by  the  Czar  after  the 
Russo-Turkish  War  of  1877,  and  deported  again 
after  the  Bulgarian  atrocities,  and  whom  the  Turk- 
ish Government  has  colonized  through  eastern  Pal- 
estine on  land  given  by  the  Sultan.  Nobody  really 
knows  to  whom  the  land  belongs,  I  suppose;  but  the 
Bedouins  have  had  the  habit,  for  many  centuries,  of 
claiming  and  using  it  as  they  pleased  for  their  roam- 
ing flocks  and  herds.  Now  these  northern  invaders 
are  taking  and  holding  the  most  fertile  places,  the 
best  springs,  the  fields  that  are  well  watered  through 
the  year. 

Therefore  the  Arab  hates  the  Circassian,  though 
170 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

he  be  of  the  same  religion,  far  more  than  he  hates 
the  Christian,  almost  as  much  as  he  hates  the  Turk. 
But  the  Circassian  can  take  care  of  himself;  he  is  a 
fierce  and  hardy  fighter;  and  in  his  rude  way  he  un- 
derstands how  to  make  farming  and  stock-raising 

Pay- 
Indeed,  this  Land  of  Gilead  is  a  region  in  which 

twenty  times  the  present  population,  if  they  were  in- 
dustrious and  intelligent  and  had  good  government, 
might  prosper.  No  wonder  that  the  tribe  of  Gad 
and  Reuben  and  the  half-tribe  of  Manasseh,  on  the 
way  to  Canaan,  "when  they  saw  the  land  of  Jazer 
and  the  land  of  Gilead,  that,  behold,  the  place  was 
a  place  for  cattle,"  (Numbers  xxxii)  fell  in  love  with 
it,  and  besought  Moses  that  they  might  have  their 
inheritance  there,  and  not  westward  of  the  Jordan. 
No  wonder  that  they  recrossed  the  river  after  they 
had  helped  Joshua  to  conquer  the  Canaanites,  and 
settled  in  this  high  country,  so  much  fairer  and  more 
fertile  than  Judea,  or  even  than  Samaria. 

It  was  here,  in  1880,  that  Laurence  Oliphant,  the 
gifted   English   traveller  and   mystic,   proposed   to 
establish  his  fine  scheme  for  the  beginning  of  the 
171 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

restoration  of  the  Jews  to  Palestine.  A  territory  ex- 
tending from  the  brook  of  Jabbok  on  the  north  to 
the  brook  of  Arnon  on  the  south,  from  the  Jordan 
Valley  on  the  west  to  the  Arabian  desert  on  the  east ; 
railways  running  up  from  the  sea  at  Haifa,  and 
down  from  Damascus,  and  southward  to  the  Gulf  of 
Akabah,  and  across  to  Ismailia  on  the  Suez  Canal; 
a  government  of  local  autonomy  guaranteed  and 
protected  by  the  Sublime  Porte;  sufficient  capital  sup- 
plied by  the  Jewish  bankers  of  London  and  Paris 
and  Berlin  and  Vienna;  and  the  outcasts  of  Israel 
gathered  from  all  the  countries  where  they  are  op- 
pressed, to  dwell  together  in  peace  and  plenty,  tend- 
ing sheep  and  cattle,  raising  fruit  and  grain,  pressing 
out  wine  and  oil,  and  supplying  the  world  with 
the  balm  of  Gilead — such  was  Oliphant's  beautiful 
dream. 

But  it  did  not  come  true;  because  Russia  did 
not  like  it,  because  Turkey  was  afraid  of  it,  be- 
cause the  rest  of  Europe  did  not  care  for  it, — and 
perhaps  because  the  Jews  themselves  were  not  gen- 
erally enthusiastic  over  it.  Perhaps  the  majority  of 
them  would  rather  stay  where  they  are.  Perhaps 
172 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

they  do  not  yearn  passionately  for  Palestine  and 
the  simple  life. 

But  it  is  not  of  these  things  that  we  are  thinking, 
I  must  confess,  as  the  ruddy  sun  slowly  drops  toward 
the  heights  of  Fennel,  and  we  stroll  out  in  the  even- 
ing glow,  along  the  edge  of  the  wild  ravine  into 
which  our  little  stream  plunges,  and  look  down  into 
the  deep,  grand  valley  of  the  Brook  Jabbok. 

Yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  gulf  of 
heliotrope  shadow,  stretches  the  long  bulk  of  the 
Jebel  Ajlun,  shaggy  with  oak-trees.  It  was  some- 
where on  the  slopes  of  that  wooded  mountain  that 
one  of  the  most  tragic  battles  of  the  world  was  fought. 
For  there  the  army  of  Absalom  went  out  to  meet  the 
army  of  his  father  David.  "And  the  battle  was 
spread  over  the  face  of  all  the  country,  and  the  forest 
devoured  more  people  that  day  than  the  sword  de- 
voured." It  was  there  that  the  young  man  Absalom 
rode  furiously  upon  his  mule,  "and  the  mule  went 
under  the  thick  boughs  of  a  great  oak,  and  his  head 
caught  hold  of  the  oak,  and  he  was  taken  up  between 
heaven  and  earth."  And  a  man  came  and  told  Joab, 
the  captain  of  David's  host,  "  Behold  I  saw  Absalom 
173 


A   JOURNEY   TO    JERASH 

hanging  in  the  midst  of  an  oak."  Then  Joab  made 
haste;  "and  he  took  three  darts  in  his  hand,  and 
thrust  them  through  the  heart  of  Absalom  while  he 
was  yet  alive  in  the  midst  of  the  oak."  And  when 
the  news  came  to  David,  sitting  in  the  gate  of  the 
city  of  Mahanaim,  he  went  up  into  the  chamber  over 
the  gate  and  wept  bitterly,  crying,  "Would  I  had 
died  for  thee,  O  Absalom,  my  son!"  (II  Samuel 
xviii.) 

To  remember  a  story  like  that  is  to  feel  the  pathos 
with  which  man  has  touched  the  face  of  .nature. 
But  there  is  another  story,  more  mystical,  more 
beautiful,  which  belongs  to  the  scene  upon  which 
we  are  looking.  Down  in  the  purple  valley,  where 
the  smooth  meadows  spread  so  fair,  and  the  little 
river  curves  and  gleams  through  the  thickets  of 
oleander,  somewhere  along  that  flashing  stream  is 
the  place  where  Jacob  sent  his  wives  and  his  chil- 
dren, his  servants  and  his  cattle,  across  the  water  in 
the  darkness,  and  there  remained  all  night  long  alone, 
for  "there  wrestled  a  man  with  him  until  the  break- 
ing of  the  day." 

Who  was  this  "man"  with  whom  the  patriarch 
174 


A   JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

contended  at  midnight,  and  to  whom  he  cried,  "I 
will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me"?  On 
the  morrow  Jacob  was  to  meet  his  fierce  and  power- 
ful brother  Esau,  whom  he  had  wronged  and  out- 
witted, from  whom  he  had  stolen  the  birthright 
blessing  twenty  years  before.  Was  it  the  prospect  of 
this  dreaded  meeting  that  brought  upon  Jacob  the 
night  of  lonely  struggle  by  the  Brook  Jabbok  ?  Was 
it  the  promise  of  reconciliation  with  his  brother  that 
made  him  say  at  dawn,  "I  have  seen  God  face  to 
face,  and  my  life  is  saved"  ?  Was  it  the  unexpected 
friendliness  and  gentleness  of  that  brother  in  the 
encounter  of  the  morning  that  inspired  Jacob's  cry, 
"I  have  seen  thy  face  as  one  seeth  the  face  of  God,  and 
thou  wast  pleased  with  me"  ? 

Yes,  that  is  what  the  old  story  means,  in  its 
Oriental  imagery.  The  midnight  wrestling  is  the 
pressure  of  human  enmity  and  strife.  The  morning 
peace  is  the  assurance  of  human  forgiveness  and 
love.  The  face  of  God  seen  in  the  face  of  human 
kindness — that  is  the  sunrise  vision  of  the  Brook 
Jabbok. 

Such  are  the  thoughts  with  which  we  fall  asleep 
175 


A    JOURNEY    TO    JERASH 

in  our  tents  beside  the  murmuring  brook  of  Er 
Rumman.  Early  the  next  morning  we  go  down, 
and  down,  and  down,  by  ledge  and  terrace  and 
grassy  slope,  into  the  Vale  of  Jabbok.  It  is  sixty 
miles  long,  beginning  on  the  edge  of  the  mountain 
of  Moab,  and  curving  eastward,  northward,  west- 
ward, south-westward,  between  Gilead  and  Ajlfin, 
until  it  opens  into  the  Jordan  Valley. 

Here  is  the  famous  little  river,  a  swift,  singing 
current  of  gray-blue  water — Nahr  ez-Zerka  "blue 
river,"  the  Arabs  call  it — dashing  and  swirling 
merrily  between  the  thickets  of  willows  and  tama- 
racks and  oleanders  that  border  it.  The  ford  is 
rather  deep,  for  the  spring  flood  is  on;  but  our 
horses  splash  through  gaily,  scattering  the  water 
around  them  in  showers  which  glitter  in  the  sunshine. 

Is  this  the  brook  beside  which  a  man  once  met 
God  ?  Yes — and  by  many  another  brook  too. 


176 


A   JOURNEY   TO    JERASH 

III 
THE  RUINS  OF  GERASA 

WE  are  coming  now  into  the  region  of  the  Decap- 
olis,  the  Greek  cities  which  sprang  up  along  the 
eastern  border  of  Palestine  after  the  conquests  of 
Alexander  the  Great. 

They  were  trading  cities,  undoubtedly,  situated 
on  the  great  roads  which  led  from  the  east  across 
the  desert  to  the  Jordan  Valley,  and  so,  converging 
upon  the  Plain  of  Esdraelon,  to  the  Mediterranean 
Sea  and  to  Greece  and  Italy.  Their  wealth  tempted 
the  Jewish  princes  of  the  Hasmonean  line  to  conquer 
and  plunder  them;  but  the  Roman  general  Pompey 
restored  their  civic  liberties,  B.  c.  65,  and  caused  them 
to  be  rebuilt  and  strengthened.  By  the  beginning 
of  the  Christian  era,  they  were  once  more  rich  and 
flourishing,  and  a  league  was  formed  of  ten  munici- 
palities, with  certain  rights  of  communal  and  local 
government,  under  the  protection  and  suzerainty  of 
the  Roman  Empire. 

The  ten  cities  which  originally  composed  this  con- 
177 


A   JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

federacy  for  mutual  defence  and  the  development 
of  their  trade,  were  Scythopolis,  Hippos,  Damascus, 
Gadara,  Raphana,  Kanatha,  Pella,  Dion,  Philadel- 
phia and  Gerasa.  Their  money  was  stamped  with 
the  image  of  Csesar.  Their  soldiers  followed  the 
Imperial  eagles.  Their  traditions,  their  arts,  their 
literature  were  Greek.  But  their  strength  and  their 
new  prosperity  were  Roman. 

Here  in  this  narrow  wadi  through  which  we  are 
climbing  up  from  the  Vale  of  Jabbok  we  find  the 
traces  of  the  presence  of  the  Romans  in  the  frag- 
ments of  a  paved  military  road  and  an  aqueduct. 
Presently  we  surmount  a  rocky  hill  and  look  down 
into  the  broad,  shallow  basin  of  Jerash.  Gently 
sloping,  rock-strewn  hills  surround  it;  through  the 
centre  flows  a  stream,  with  banks  bordered  by  trees; 
a  water-fall  is  flashing  opposite  to  us;  on  a  cluster 
of  rounded  knolls  about  the  middle  of  the  valley,  on 
the  west  bank  of  the  stream,  are  spread  the  vast, 
incredible,  complete  ruins  of  the  ancient  city  of 
Gerasa. 

They  rise  like  a  dream  in  the  desolation  of  the 
wilderness,  columns  and  arches  and  vaults  and 
178 


A  JOURNEY   TO   JERASH 

amphitheatres  and  temples,  suddenly  appearing  in 
the  bare  and  lonely  landscape  as  if  by  enchantment. 
How  came  these  monuments  of  splendour  and  per- 
manence into  this  country  of  simplicity  and  tran- 
sience, this  land  of  shifting  shepherds  and  drovers, 
this  empire  of  the  black  tent,  this  immemorial  region 
that  has  slept  away  the  centuries  under  the  spell  of 
the  pastoral  pipe  ?  What  magical  music  of  another 
kind,  strong,  stately  and  sonorous,  music  of  brazen 
trumpets  and  shawms,  of  silver  harps  and  cymbals, 
evoked  this  proud  and  potent  city  on  the  border  of 
the  desert,  and  maintained  for  centuries,  amid  the 
sweeping,  turbulent  floods  of  untamable  tribes  of 
rebels  and  robbers,  this  lofty  landmark  of 

"  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome  "  ? 

What  sudden  storm  of  discord  and  disaster  shook  it 
all  down  again,  loosened  the  sinews  of  majesty  and 
power,  stripped  away  the  garments  of  beauty  and 
luxury,  dissolved  the  lovely  body  of  living  joy,  and 
left  this  skeleton  of  dead  splendour  diffused  upon  the 
solitary  ground  ? 

179 


A  JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

Who  can  solve  these  mysteries  ?  It  is  all  unac- 
countable, unbelievable, — the  ghost  of  the  dream  of 
a  dream, — yet  here  it  is,  surrounded  by  the  green 
hills,  flooded  with  the  frank  light  of  noon,  neigh- 
boured by  a  dirty,  noisy  little  village  of  Arabs  and 
Circassians  on  the  east  bank  of  the  stream,  and  with 
real  goats  and  lean,  black  cattle  grazing  between  the 
carved  columns  and  under  the  broken  architraves  of 
Gerasa  the  Golden. 

Let  us  go  up  into  the  wrecked  city. 

This  triumphal  arch,  with  its  three  gates  and  its 
lofty  Corinthian  columns,  stands  outside  of  the  city 
walls :  a  structure  which  has  no  other  use  or  meaning 
than  the  expression  of  Imperial  pride :  thus  the  Ro- 
man conquerors  adorn  and  approach  their  vassal- 
town. 

Behind  the  arch  a  broad,  paved  road  leads  to  the 
southern  gate,  perhaps  a  thousand  feet  away.  Be- 
side the  road,  between  the  arch  and  the  gate,  lie  two 
buildings  of  curious  interest.  The  first  is  a  great 
pool  of  stone,  seven  hundred  feet  long  by  three  hun- 
dred feet  wide.  This  is  the  Naumachia,  which  is 
filled  with  water  by  conduits  from  the  neighbouring 
180 


A  JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

stream,  in  order  that  the  Greeks  may  hold  their 
mimic  naval  combats  and  regattas  here  in  the  desert, 
for  they  are  always  at  heart  a  seafaring  people.  Be- 
yond the  pool  there  is  a  Circus,  with  four  rows  of 
stone  seats  and  an  oval  arena,  for  wild-beast  shows 
and  gladiatorial  combats. 

The  city  walls  have  almost  entirely  disappeared 
and  the  South  Gate  is  in  ruins.  Entering  and  turning 
to  the  left,  we  ascend  a  little  hill  and  find  the  Temple 
(perhaps  dedicated  to  Artemis),  and  close  beside  it 
the  great  South  Theatre.  There  is  hardly  a  break 
in  the  semicircular  stone  benches,  thirty-two  rows  of 
seats  rising  tier  above  tier,  divided  into  an  upper 
and  a  lower  section  by  a  broader  row  of  "boxes"  or 
stalls,  richly  carved,  and  reserved,  no  doubt,  for 
magnates  of  the  city  and  persons  of  importance. 
The  stage,  over  a  hundred  feet  wide,  is  backed 
by  a  straight  wall  adorned  with  Corinthian  col- 
umns and  decorated  niches.  The  theatre  faces  due 
north;  and  the  spectator  sitting  here,  if  the  play 
wearies  him,  can  lift  his  eyes  and  look  off  beyond 
the  proscenium  over  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Gerasa. 

181 


A  JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

"But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  acqueducts, — and  then, 

All  the  men!" 

In  the  hollow  northward  from  this  theatre  is  the 
Forum,  or  the  Market-place,  or  the  Hippodrome — 
I  cannot  tell  what  it  is,  but  a  splendid  oval  of  Ionic 
pillars  incloses  an  open  space  of  more  than  three 
hundred  feet  in  length  and  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  in  width,  where  the  Gerasenes  may  barter  or 
bicker  or  bet,  as  they  will. 

From  the  Forum  to  the  North  Gate  runs  the 
main  street,  more  than  half  a  mile  long,  lined  with 
a  double  row  of  columns,  from  twenty  to  thirty  feet 
high,  with  smooth  shafts  and  acanthus  capitals.  At 
the  intersection  of  the  cross-streets  there  are  tetra- 
pylons,  with  domes,  and  pedestals  for  statues.  The 
pavement  of  the  roadway  is  worn  into  ruts  by  the 
chariot  wheels.  Under  the  arcades  behind  the  col- 
umns run  the  sidewalks  for  foot-passengers.  Turn 
to  the  right  from  the  main  street  and  you  come  to 
182 


A  JOURNEY   TO   JERASH 

the  Public  Baths,  an  immense  building  like  a  pal- 
ace, supplied  with  hot  and  cold  water,  adorned  with 
marble  and  mosaic.  On  the  left  lies  the  Tribuna, 
with  its  richly  decorated  fa9ade  and  its  fountain  of 
flowing  water.  A  few  yards  farther  north  is  the 
Propylaeum  of  the  Great  Temple;  a  superb  gateway, 
decorated  with  columns  and  garlands  and  shell 
niches,  opening  to  a  wide  flight  of  steps  by  which  we 
ascend  to  the  temple-area,  a  terrace  nearly  twice  the 
size  of  Madison  Square  Garden,  surrounded  by  two 
hundred  and  sixty  columns,  and  standing  clear  above 
the  level  of  the  encircling  city. 

The  Temple  of  the  Sun  rises  at  the  western  end 
of  this  terrace,  facing  the  dawn.  The  huge  columns 
of  the  portico,  forty-five  feet  high  and  five  feet  in 
diameter,  with  rich  Corinthian  capitals,  are  of  rosy- 
yellow  limestone,  which  seems  to  be  saturated  with 
the  sunshine  of  a  thousand  years.  Behind  them  are 
the  walls  of  the  Cella,  or  inner  shrine,  with  its  vaulted 
apse  for  the  image  of  the  god,  and  its  secret  stairs 
and  passages  in  the  rear  wall  for  the  coming  and 
going  of  the  priests,  and  the  ascent  to  the  roof  for  the 

first  salutation  of  the  sunrise  over  the  eastern  hills. 
183 


A  JOURNEY   TO   JERASH 

Spreading  our  cloth  between  two  pillars  of  the 
portico  we  celebrate  the  feast  of  noontide,  and  look- 
ing out  over  the  wrecked  magnificence  of  the  city  we 
try  to  reconstruct  the  past. 

It  was  in  the  days  of  Antoninus  Pius  and  Marcus 
Aurelius,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  second  century  after 
Christ,  that  these  temples  and  palaces  and  theatres 
were  rising.  Those  were  the  palmy  days  of  Graeco- 
Roman  civilisation  in  Syria;  then  the  shops  along  the 
Colonnade  were  filled  with  rich  goods,  the  Forum 
listened  to  the  voice  of  world-famous  orators  and 
teachers,  and  proud  lords  and  ladies  assembled  in  the 
Naumachia  to  watch  the  sham  battles  of  the  miniature 
galleys.  A  little  later  the  new  religion  of  Christianity 
found  a  foothold  here,  (see,  these  are  the  ruined  out- 
lines of  a  Christian  church  below  us  to  the  south, 
and  the  foundation  of  a  great  Basilica),  and  by  the 
fifth  century  the  pagan  worship  was  dying  out,  and 
the  Bishop  of  Gerasa  had  a  seat  in  the  Council  of 
Chalcedon.  It  was  no  longer  with  the  comparative 
merits  of  Stoicism  and  Epicureanism  and  Neo-Pla- 
tonism,  or  with  the  rival  literary  fame  of  their  own 
Ariston  and  Kerykos  as  against  Meleager  and  Me- 
184 


A   JOURNEY   TO   JERASH 

nippus  and  Theodoras  of  Gadara,  that  the  Gerasenes 
concerned  themselves.  They  were  busy  now  with 
the  controversies  about  Homoiousia  and  Homoousia, 
with  the  rivalry  of  the  Eutychians  and  the  Nestori- 
ans,  with  the  conflicting,  not  to  say  combative, 
claims  of  such  saints  as  Dioscurus  of  Alexandria  and 
Theodoret  of  Cyrus.  But  trade  continued  brisk,  and 
the  city  was  as  rich  and  as  proud  as  ever.  In  the 
seventh  century  an  Arabian  chronicler  named  it 
among  the  great  towns  of  Palestine,  and  a  poet 
praised  its  fertile  territory  and  its  copious  spring. 

Then  what  happened?  Earthquake,  pestilence, 
conflagration,  pillage,  devastation — who  knows? 
A  Mohammedan  writer  of  the  thirteenth  century 
merely  mentions  it  as  "a  great  city  of  ruins";  and 
so  it  lay,  deserted  and  forgotten,  until  a  German 
traveller  visited  it  in  1806;  and  so  it  lies  to-day,  with 
all  its  dwellings  and  its  walls  shattered  and  dissolved 
beside  its  flowing  stream  in  the  centre  of  its  green 
valley,  and  only  the  relics  of  its  temples,  its  theatres, 
its  colonnades,  and  its  triumphal  arch  remaining  to 
tell  us  how  brave  and  rich  and  gay  it  was  in  the  days 
of  old. 

185 


A  JOURNEY   TO   JERASH 

Do  you  believe  it?  Does  it  seem  at  all  real  or 
possible  to  you?  Look  up  at  this  tall  pillar  above 
us.  See  how  the  wild  marjoram  has  thrust  its  roots 
between  the  joints  and  hangs  like  "the  hyssop  that 
springeth  out  of  the  wall."  See  how  the  weather  has 
worn  deep  holes  and  crevices  in  the  topmost  drum, 
and  how  the  sparrows  have  made  their  nests  there. 
Lean  your  back  against  the  pillar;  feel  it  vibrate  like 
"a  reed  shaken  with  the  wind";  watch  that  huge 
capital  of  acanthus  leaves  swaying  slowly  to  and  fro 
and  trembling  upon  its  stalk  "as  a  flower  of  the 
field." 

All  the  afternoon  and  all  the  next  morning  we 
wander  through  the  ruins,  taking  photographs,  de- 
ciphering inscriptions,  discovering  new  points  of  view 
to  survey  the  city.  We  sit  on  the  arch  of  the  old 
Roman  bridge  which  spans  the  stream,  and  look 
down  into  the  valley  filled  with  gardens  and  or- 
chards; tall  poplars  shiver  in  the  breeze;  peaches, 
plums,  and  cherries  are  in  bloom;  almonds  clad  in 
pale-green  foliage;  figs  putting  forth  their  verdant 
shoots;  pomegranates  covered  with  ruddy  young 
186 


A  JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

leaves.  We  go  up  to  see  the  beautiful  spring  which 
bursts  from  the  hillside  above  the  town  and  supplies 
it  with  water.  Then  we  go  back  again  to  roam  aim- 
lessly and  dreamily,  like  folk  bewitched,  among  the 
tumbled  heaps  of  hewn  stones,  the  broken  capitals, 
and  the  tall,  rosy  columns,  soaked  with  sunbeams. 

The  Arabs  of  Jerash  have  a  bad  reputation  as 
robbers  and  extortionists;  and  in  truth  they  are 
rather  a  dangerous-looking  lot  of  fellows,  with  bold, 
handsome  brown  faces  and  inscrutable  dark  eyes. 
But  although  we  have  paid  no  tribute  to  them,  they 
do  not  molest  us.  They  seem  to  regard  us  with  a 
contemptuous  pity,  as  harmless  idiots  who  loaf 
among  the  fallen  stones  and  do  not  even  attempt  to 
make  excavations. 

Our  camp  is  in  the  inclosure  of  the  North  Theatre, 
a  smaller  building  than  that  which  stands  beside  the 
South  Gate,  but  large  enough  to  hold  an  audience  of 
two  or  three  thousand.  The  semicircle  of  seats  is 
still  unbroken;  the  arrangements  of  the  stage,  the 
stairways,  the  entries  of  the  building  can  all  be  easily 
traced. 

There  were  gay  times  in  the  city  when  these  two 
187 


A  JOURNEY  TO   JERASH 

theatres  were  filled  with  people.  What  comedies  of 
Plautus  or  Terence  or  Aristophanes  or  Menander; 
what  tragedies  of  Seneca,  or  of  the  seven  dramatists 
of  Alexandria  who  were  called  the  "Pleias,"  were 
presented  here? 

Look  up  along  those  lofty  tiers  of  seats  in  the 
pale,  clear  starlight.  Can  you  see  no  shadowy 
figures  sitting  there,  hear  no  light  whisper  of  ghostly 
laughter,  no  thin  ripple  of  clapping  hands  ?  What 
flash  of  wit  amuses  them,  what  nobly  tragic  word 
or  action  stirs  them  to  applause  ?  What  problem  of 
their  own  life,  what  reflection  of  their  own  heart, 
does  the  stage  reveal  to  them  ?  We  shall  never  know. 
The  play  at  Gerasa  is  ended. 


188 


A  PSALM  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

The  lizard  rested  on  the  rock  while  I  sat  among  the 

ruins; 
And  the  pride  of   man  was   like  a  vision  of  the 

night. 

Lo,  the  lords  of  the  city  have  disappeared  into  dark- 
ness; 

The  ancient  wilderness  hath  swallowed  up  all  their 
work. 

There  is  nothing  left  of  the  city  but  a  heap  of  frag- 
ments; 

The  bones  of  a  carcass  that  a  wild  beast  hath  de- 
voured. 

Behold  the  desert  waiteth  hungrily  for  man's  dwell- 
ings; 

Surely  the  tide  of  desolation  returneth  upon  his 
toil. 

All  that  he  hath  painfully  lifted  up  is  shaken  down 

in  a  moment; 
The  memory  of  his  glory  is  buried  beneath  the  billows 

of  sand. 

189 


Then  a  voice  said,  Look  again  upon  the  ruins; 
These  broken  arches  have  taught  generations  to  build 

Moreover  the  name  of  this  city  shall  be  remembered; 
Here  a  poor  man  spoke  a  word  that  shall  not  die. 

This  is  the  glory  that  is  stronger  than  the  desert; 
For  God  hath  given  eternity  to  the  thought  of  man. 


190 


IX 
THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  SAMARIA 


I 

JORDAN    FERRY 

JjOOK  down  from  these  tranquil  heights  of  Jebel 
Osha,  above  the  noiseful,  squalid  little  city  of  Es 
Salt,  and  you  see  what  Moses  saw  when  he  climbed 
Mount  Pisgah  and  looked  upon  the  Promised  Land 
which  he  was  never  to  enter. 

"Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 

And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  death's  cold  flood, 
Should  fright  us  from  the  shore." 

Pisgah  was  probably  a  few  miles  south  of  the 
place  where  we  are  now  standing,  but  the  main 
features  of  the  view  are  the  same.  These  broad 
mountain-shoulders,  falling  steeply  away  to  the  west, 
clad  in  the  emerald  robe  of  early  spring;  this  im- 
mense gulf  at  our  feet,  four  thousand  feet  below 
us,  a  huge  trough  of  gray  and  yellow,  through  which 
the  dark-green  ribbon  of  the  Jordan  jungle,  touched 
193 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

with  a  few  silvery  gleams  of  water,  winds  to  the 
blue  basin  of  the  Dead  Sea;  those  scarred  and 
wrinkled  hills  rising  on  the  other  side,  the  knotted 
brow  of  Quarantana,  the  sharp  cone  of  Sartoba,  the 
distant  peak  of  Mizpeh,  the  long  line  of  Judean, 
Samarian,  and  Galilean  summits,  Olivet,  and  Ebal, 
and  Gerizim,  and  Gilboa,  and  Tabor,  rolling  away 
to  the  northward,  growing  ever  fairer  with  the  prom- 
ise of  fertile  valleys  between  them  and  rich  plains 
beyond  them,  and  fading  at  last  into  the  azure 
vagueness  of  the  highlands  round  the  Lake  of 
Galilee. 

Why  does  that  country  toward  which  we  are  look- 
ing and  travelling  seem  to  us  so  much  more  familiar 
and  real,  so  much  more  a  part  of  the  actual  world, 
than  this  region  of  forgotten  Greek  and  Roman 
glory,  from  which  we  are  returning  like  those  who 
awake  from  sleep  ?  The  ruined  splendours  of  Jerash 
fade  behind  us  like  a  dream.  Samaria  and  Galilee, 
crowded  with  memories  and  associations  which  have 
been  woven  into  our  minds  by  the  wonderful  Bible 
story,  draw  us  to  them  with  the  convincing  touch  of 
reality.  Yet  even  while  we  recognise  this  strange 
194 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

difference  between  our  feelings  toward  the  Holy 
Land  and  those  toward  other  parts  of  the  ancient 
world,  we  know  that  it  is  not  altogether  true. 

Gerasa  was  as  really  a  part  of  God's  big  world  as 
Shechem  or  Jezreel  or  Sychar.  It  stood  in  His 
sight,  and  He  must  have  regarded  the  human  souls 
that  lived  there.  He  must  have  cared  for  them,  and 
watched  over  them,  and  judged  them  equitably, 
dividing  the  just  from  the  unjust,  the  children  of  love 
from  the  children  of  hate,  even  as  He  did  with  men 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Jordan,  even  as  He  does  with 
all  men  everywhere  to-day.  If  faith  in  a  God  who  is 
the  Father  and  Lord  of  all  mankind  means  any- 
thing it  means  this:  equal  care,  equal  justice,  equal 
mercy  for  all  the  world.  Gerasa  has  been  forgotten 
of  men,  but  God  never  forgot  it. 

What,  then,  is  the  difference?  Just  this:  in  the 
little  land  between  the  Jordan  and  the  sea,  things 
came  to  pass  which  have  a  more  enduring  signifi- 
cance than  the  wars  and  splendours,  the  wealth  and 
culture  of  the  Decapolis.  Conflicts  were  fought  there 
in  which  the  eternal  issues  of  good  and  evil  were 
clearly  manifest.  Ideas  were  worked  out  there  which 
195 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

have  a  permanent  value  to  the  spiritual  life  of  man. 
Revelations  were  made  there  which  have  become  the 
guiding  stars  of  succeeding  generations.  This  is 
why  that  country  of  the  Bible  seems  more  real  to  us : 
because  its  history  is  more  significant,  because  it  is 
Divinely  inspired  with  a  meaning  for  our  faith  and 
hope. 

Do  you  agree  with  this  ?  I  do  not  know.  But  at 
least  if  you  were  with  us  on  this  glorious  morning, 
riding  down  from  the  heights  of  Jebel  Osha  you 
would  feel  the  vivid  beauty,  the  subduing  grandeur 
of  the  scene.  You  would  rejoice  in  the  life-renewing 
air  that  blows  softly  around  us  and  invites  us  to 
breathe  deep, — in  the  pure  morning  faces  of  the 
flowers  opening  among  the  rocks, — in  the  light 
waving  of  silken  grasses  along  the  slopes  by  which 
we  steeply  descend. 

There  is  a  young  Gileadite  running  beside  us,  a 
fine  fellow  about  eighteen  years  old,  with  his  white 
robe  girded  up  about  his  loins,  leaving  his  brown 
legs  bare.  His  head-dress  is  encircled  with  the  black 
'agal  of  camel's  hair  like  a  rustic  crown.  A  long 
gun  is  slung  over  his  back;  a  wicked-looking  curved 
196 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

knife  with  a  brass  sheath  sticks  in  his  belt;  his  silver 
powder-horn  and  leather  bullet-pouch  hang  at  his 
waist.  He  strides  along  with  a  free,  noble  step,  or 
springs  lightly  from  rock  to  rock  like  a  gazelle. 

His  story  is  a  short  one,  and  simple, — if  true.  His 
younger  brother  has  run  away  from  the  family  tent 
among  the  pastures  of  Gilead,  seeking  his  fortune 
in  the  wide  world.  And  now  this  elder  brother  has 
come  out  to  look  for  the  prodigal,  at  Nablus,  at 
Jaffa,  at  Jerusalem, — Allah  knows  how  far  the 
quest  may  lead!  But  he  is  afraid  of  robbers  if  he 
crosses  the  Jordan  Valley  alone.  May  he  keep 
company  with  us  and  make  the  perilous  transit 
under  our  august  protection  ?  Yes,  surely,  my 
brown  son  of  Esau;  and  we  will  not  inquire  too 
closely  whether  you  are  really  running  after  your 
brother  or  running  away  yourself. 

There  may  be  a  thousand  robbers  concealed  along 
the  river-bed,  but  we  can  see  none  of  them.  The 
valley  is  heat  and  emptiness.  Even  the  jackal  that 
slinks  across  the  trail  in  front  of  us,  droops  and 
drags  his  tail  in  visible  exhaustion.  His  lolling,  red 
tongue  is  a  signal  of  distress.  In  a  climate  like  this 
197 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

one  expects  nothing  from  man  or  beast.  Life  de- 
generates, shrivels,  stifles;  and  in  the  glaring  open 
spaces  a  sullen  madness  lurks  invisible. 

We  are  coming  to  the  ancient  fording-place  of  the 
river,  called  Adamah,  where  an  event  once  hap- 
pened which  was  of  great  consequence  to  the  Is- 
raelites and  which  has  often  been  misunderstood. 
They  were  encamped  on  the  east  side,  opposite 
Jericho,  nearly  thirty  miles  below  this  point,  waiting 
for  their  first  opportunity  to  cross  the  Jordan. 
Then,  says  the  record,  "the  waters  which  came 
down  from  above  stopped,  and  were  piled  up  in  a 
heap,  a  great  way  off,  at  Adam,  .  .  .  and  the  people 
passed  over  right  against  Jericho."  (Joshua  iii: 
14-16.) 

Look  at  these  great  clay-banks  overhanging  the 
river,  and  you  will  understand  what  it  was  that 
opened  a  dry  path  for  Israel  into  Canaan.  One  of 
these  huge  masses  of  clay  was  undermined,  and 
slipped,  and  fell  across  the  river,  heaping  up  the 
waters  behind  a  temporary  natural  dam,  and  cutting 
off  the  supply  of  the  lower  stream.  It  may  have 
taken  three  or  four  days  for  the  river  to  carve  its 
198 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

way  through  or  around  that  obstruction,  and  mean- 
time any  one  could  march  across  to  Jericho  without 
wetting  his  feet.  I  have  seen  precisely  the  same 
thing  happen  on  a  salmon  river  in  Canada  quite  as 
large  as  the  Jordan. 

The  river  is  more  open  at  this  place,  and  there  is 
a  curious  six-cornered  ferry-boat,  pulled  to  and  fro 
with  ropes  by  a  half-dozen  bare-legged  Arabs.  If  it 
had  been  a  New  England  river,  the  practical  Western 
mind  would  have  built  a  long  boat  with  a  flat  board 
at  each  side,  and  rigged  a  couple  of  running  wheels 
on  a  single  rope.  Then  the  ferryman  would  have 
had  nothing  to  do  but  let  the  stern  of  his  craft  swing 
down  at  an  angle  with  the  stream,  and  the  swift  cur- 
rent would  have  pushed  him  from  one  side  to  the 
other  at  his  will.  But  these  Orientals  have  been 
running  their  ferry  in  their  own  way,  no  doubt,  for 
many  centuries;  and  who  are  we  to  break  in  upon 
their  laborious  indolence  with  new  ideas?  It  is 
enough  that  they  bring  us  over  safely,  with  our  cattle 
and  our  stuff,  in  several  bands,  with  much  tugging 
at  the  ropes  and  shouting  and  singing. 

We  look  in  vain  on  the  shore  of  the  Jordan  for  a 
199 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

pleasant  place  to  eat  our  luncheon.  The  big  trees 
stand  with  their  feet  in  the  river,  and  the  smaller 
shrubs  are  scraggly  and  spiny.  At  last  we  find  a 
little  patch  of  shade  on  a  steep  bank  above  the  yel- 
low stream,  and  here  we  make  ourselves  as  com- 
fortable as  we  can,  with  the  thermometer  at  110°, 
and  the  hungry  gnats  and  mosquitoes  swarming 
around  us. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  we  desperately  resolve  to 
brave  the  sun,  and  ride  up  from  the  river-bed  into 
the  open  plain  on  the  west.  Here  we  catch  our  first 
clear  view  of  Mount  Hermon,  with  its  mantle  of 
glistening  snow,  hanging  like  a  cloud  on  the  northern 
horizon,  ninety  miles  away,  beyond  the  Lake  of 
Galilee  and  the  Waters  of  Merom;  a  vision  of  dis- 
tance and  coolness  and  grandeur. 

The  fields,  watered  by  the  full  streams  descending 
from  the  Wadi  Farah,  are  green  with  wheat  and 
barley.  Along  our  path  are  balsam-trees  and  thorny 
jujubes,  from  whose  branches  we  pluck  the  sweet, 
insipid  fruit  as  we  ride  beneath  them.  Herds  of  cattle 
are  pasturing  on  the  plain,  and  long  rows  of  black 
Bedouin  tents  are  stretched  at  the  foot  of  the 
200 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

mountains.  We  cross  a  dozen  murmuring  water- 
courses embowered  in  the  dark,  glistening  foliage  of 
the  oleanders  glowing  with  great  soft  flames  of  rosy 
bloom. 

At  the  Serai  on  the  hill  which  watches  over  this 
Jiftlik,  or  domain  of  the  Sultan,  there  are  some  Turk- 
ish soldiers  saddling  their  horses  for  an  expedition; 
perhaps  to  collect  taxes  or  to  chase  robbers.  The 
peasants  are  returning,  by  the  paths  among  the  corn- 
fields, to  their  huts.  The  lines  of  camp-fires  begin  to 
gleam  from  the  transient  Bedouin  villages.  Our 
white  tents  are  pitched  in  a  flowery  meadow,  beside  a 
low- voiced  stream,  and  as  we  fall  asleep  the  night  air 
is  trembling  with  the  shrill,  innumerable  brek-ek-ek- 
co'dx-co'dx  of  the  frog  chorus. 


201 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

II 
MOUNT   EPHRAIM   AND   JACOB'S  WELL 

SAMARIA  is  a  mountain  land,  but  its  characteristic 
features,  as  distinguished  from  Judea,  are  the  easi- 
ness of  approach  through  open  gateways  among  the 
hills,  and  the  fertility  of  the  broad  vales  and  level 
plains  which  lie  between  them.  The  Kingdom  of 
Israel,  in  its  brief  season  of  prosperity,  was  richer, 
more  luxurious,  and  weaker  than  the  Kingdom  of 
Judah.  The  poet  Isaiah  touched  the  keynote  of  the 
northern  kingdom  when  he  sang  of  "the  crown  of 
pride  of  the  drunkards  of  Ephraim,"  and  "the  fad- 
ing flower  of  his  glorious  beauty  which  is  on  the 
head  of  the  fat  valley."  (Isaiah  xxviii:  1-6.) 

We  turn  aside  from  the  open  but  roundabout  way 
of  the  well-tilled  Wadi  Farah  and  take  a  shorter, 
steeper  path  toward  Shechem,  through  a  deep,  nar- 
row mountain  gorge.  The  day  is  hot  and  hazy,  for 
the  Sherkfyeh  is  blowing  from  the  desert  across  the 
Jordan  Valley:  the  breath  of  Jehovah's  displeasure 
with  His  people,  "a  dry  wind  of  the  high  places  of 
202 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

the  wilderness  toward  the  daughter  of  my  people, 
neither  to  fan  nor  to  cleanse." 

At  times  the  walls  of  rock  come  so  close  together 
that  we  have  to  wind  through  a  passage  not  more 
than  ten  feet  wide.  The  air  is  parched  as  in  an  oven. 
Our  horses  scramble  wearily  up  the  stony  gallery  and 
the  rough  stairways.  One  of  our  company  faints 
under  the  fervent  heat,  and  falls  from  his  horse. 
But  fortunately  no  bones  are  broken;  a  half -hour's 
rest  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  revives  him  and 
we  ride  on. 

The  wonderful  flowers  are  blooming  wherever 
they  can  find  a  foothold  among  the  stones.  Now 
and  then  we  cross  the  mouth  of  some  little  lonely 
side-valley,  full  of  mignonette  and  cyclamens  and 
tall  spires  of  pink  hollyhock.  Under  the  huge,  dark 
sides  of  Eagle's  Crag — bare  and  rugged  as  Ben  Nevis 
— we  pass  into  the  fruitful  plain  of  Makhna,  where 
the  silken  grainfields  rustle  far  and  wide,  and  the 
rich  olive-orchards  on  the  hill-slopes  offer  us  a  shel- 
ter for  our  midday  meal  and  siesta.  Mount  Ebal  and 
Mount  Gerizim  now  rise  before  us  in  their  naked 
bulk;  and,  as  we  mount  toward  the  valley  which  lies 
203 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

between  them,  we  stay  for  a  while  to  rest  at  Jacob's 
Well. 

There  is  a  mystery  about  this  ancient  cistern  on 
the  side  of  the  mountain.  Why  was  it  dug  here,  a 
hundred  feet  deep,  although  there  are  springs  and 
streams  of  living  water  flowing  down  the  valley, 
close  at  hand?  Whence  came  the  tradition  of  the 
Samaritans  that  Jacob  gave  them  this  well,  although 
the  Old  Testament  says  nothing  about  it?  Why 
did  the  Samaritan  woman,  in  Jesus'  time,  come 
hither  to  draw  water  when  there  was  a  brook,  not 
fifty  yards  away,  which  she  must  cross  to  get  to  the 
well? 

Who  can  tell?  Certainly  there  must  have  been 
some  use  and  reason  for  such  a  well,  else  the 
men  of  long  ago  would  never  have  toiled  to  make 
it.  Perhaps  the  people  of  Sychar  had  some  super- 
stition about  its  water  which  made  them  prefer  it. 
Or  perhaps  the  stream  was  owned  and  used  for  other 
purposes,  while  the  water  of  the  well  was  free. 

It  makes  no  difference  whether  a  solution  of  the 
problem  is  ever  found.  Its  very  existence  adds  to 
the  touch  of  truth  in  the  narrative  of  St.  John's  Gos- 
204 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

pel.  Certainly  this  well  was  here  in  Jesus'  day,  close 
beside  the  road  which  He  would  be  most  likely  to 
take  in  going  from  Jerusalem  to  Galilee.  Here  He 
sat,  alone  and  weary,  while  the  disciples  went  on  to 
the  village  to  buy  food.  And  here,  while  He  waited 
and  thirsted,  He  spoke  to  an  unknown,  unfriendly, 
unhappy  woman  the  words  which  have  been  a  spring 
of  living  water  to  the  weary  and  fevered  heart  of  the 
world :  "  God  is  a  spirit,  and  they  that  worship  Him 
must  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth." 

Ill 
NABLUS  AND   SEBASTE 

ABOUT  a  mile  from  Jacob's  Well,  the  city  of 
Nablus  lies  in  the  hollow  between  Mount  Gerizim 
on  the  south  and  Mount  Ebal  on  the  north.  The 
side  of  Gerizim  is  precipitous  and  jagged;  Ebal  rises 
more  smoothly,  but  very  steeply,  and  is  covered  with 
plantations  of  thornless  cactus,  (Opuntia  cochinilli- 
fera),  cultivated  for  the  sake  of  the  cochineal  in- 
sects which  live  upon  the  plant  and  from  which  a 
red  dye  is  made. 

205 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

The  valley  is  well  watered,  and  is  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  wide.  A  little  east  of  the  city  there 
are  two  natural  bays  or  amphitheatres  opposite  to 
each  other  in  the  mountains.  Here  the  tribes  of 
Israel  may  have  been  gathered  while  the  priests 
chanted  the  curses  of  the  law  from  Ebal  and  the 
blessings  from  Gerizim.  (Joshua  viii:  30-35.)  The 
cliffs  were  sounding-boards  and  sent  the  loud  voices 
of  blessing  and  cursing  out  over  the  multitude  so  that 
all  could  hear. 

It  seems  as  if  it  were  mainly  the  echo  of  the  cursing 
of  Ebal  that  greets  us  as  we  ride  around  the  fierce  lit- 
tle Mohammedan  city  of  Nablus  on  Friday  afternoon, 
passing  through  the  open  and  dilapidated  cemeteries 
where  the  veiled  women  are  walking  and  gossiping 
away  their  holiday.  The  looks  of  the  inhabitants 
are  surly  and  hostile.  The  children  shout  mocking 
ditties  at  us,  reviling  the  "Nazarenes."  We  will  not 
ask  our  dragoman  to  translate  the  words  that  we 
catch  now  and  then ;  it  is  easy  to  guess  that  they  are 
not  "fit  to  print." 

Our  camp  is  close  beside  a  cemetery,  near  the 
eastern  gate  of  the  town.  The  spectators  who  watch 
206 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

us  from  a  distance  while  we  dine  are  numerous ;  and 
no  doubt  they  are  passing  unfavourable  criticisms 
on  our  table  manners,  and  on  the  Prankish  custom 
of  permitting  one  unveiled  lady  to  travel  with  three 
husbands.  The  population  of  Nablus  is  about 
twenty-five  thousand.  It  has  a  Turkish  governor, 
a  garrison,  several  soap  factories,  and  a  million  dogs 
which  howl  all  night. 

At  half -past  six  the  next  morning  we  set  out  on  foot 
to  climb  Mount  Ebal,  which  is  three  thousand  feet 
high.  The  view  from  the  rocky  summit  sweeps  over 
all  Palestine,  from  snowy  Hermon  to  the  mountains 
round  about  Jerusalem,  from  Carmel  to  Nebo,  from 
the  sapphire  expanse  of  the  Mediterranean  to  the 
violet  valley  of  the  Jordan  and  the  garnet  wall  of 
Moab  and  Gilead  beyond. 

For  us  the  view  is  veiled  in  mystery  by  the  haze 
of  the  south  wind.  The  ranges  and  peaks  far 
away  fade  into  cloudlike  shadows.  The  depths 
below  us  seem  to  sink  unfathomably.  Nablus  is 
buried  in  the  gulf.  On  the  summit  of  Gerizim, 
a  Mohammedan  w'eli,  shining  like  a  flake  of  mica, 
marks  the  plateau  where  the  Samaritan  Temple 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

stood.  Hilltop  towns,  Asiret,  Talluza,  Yasld,  emerge 
like  islands  from  the  misty  sea.  In  that  great 
shadowy  hollow  to  the  west  lie  the  ruins  of  the 
city  of  Samaria,  which  Caesar  Augustus  renamed 
Sebaste,  in  honour  of  his  wife  Augusta.  If  she  could 
see  the  village  of  Sebastiyeh  now  she  would  not  be 
proud  of  her  namesake  town.  It  is  there  that  we  are 
going  to  make  our  midday  camp. 

King  Omri  acted  as  a  wise  man  when  he  moved 
the  capital  of  Israel  from  Shechem,  an  indefensible 
site,  commanded  by  overhanging  mountains  and 
approached  by  two  easy  vales,  to  Shomron,  the 
"watch-hill"  which  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  broad 
Vale  of  Barley. 

As  we  ride  across  the  smiling  corn-fields  toward 
the  isolated  eminence,  we  see  its  strength  as  well 
as  its  beauty.  It  rises  steeply  from  the  valley  to  a 
height  of  more  than  three  hundred  feet.  The  en- 
circling mountains  are  too  far  away  to  dominate 
it  under  the  ancient  conditions  of  warfare  without 
cannons,  and  a  good  wall  must  have  made  it,  as  its 
name  implied,  an  impregnable  "stronghold,"  watch- 
ing over  a  region  of  immense  fertility. 
208 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

What  pomps  and  splendours,  what  revels  and 
massacres,  what  joys  of  victory  and  horrors  of  de- 
feat, that  round  hill  rising  from  the  Vale  of  Barley 
has  seen.  Now  there  is  nothing  left  of  its  crown  of 
pride,  but  the  broken  pillars  of  the  marble  colonnade 
a  mile  long  with  which  Herod  the  Great  girdled  the 
hill,  and  a  few  indistinguishable  ruins  of  the  temple 
which  he  built  in  honour  of  the  divine  Augustus  and 
of  the  hippodrome  which  he  erected  for  the  people. 
We  climb  the  terraces  and  ride  through  the  olive- 
groves  and  ploughed  fields  where  the  street  of  col- 
umns once  ran.  A  few  of  them  are  standing  up- 
right; others  leaning  or  fallen,  half  sunken  in  the 
ground;  fragments  of  others  built  into  the  stone 
walls  which  divide  the  fields.  There  are  many  hewn 
and  carven  stones  imbedded  in  the  miserable  little 
modern  village  which  crouches  on  the  north  end  of 
the  hill,  and  the  mosque  into  which  the  Crusaders' 
Church  of  Saint  John  has  been  transformed  is  said 
to  contain  the  tombs  of  Elisha,  Obadiah  and  John 
the  Baptist.  This  rumour  does  not  concern  us  deeply 
and  we  will  leave  its  truth  uninvestigated. 

Let  us  tie  our  horses  among  Herod's  pillars,  and 
209 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

spread  the  rugs  for  our  noontide  rest  by  the  ruined 
south  gate  of  the  city.  At  our  feet  lies  the  wide, 
level,  green  valley  where  the  mighty  host  of  Ben- 
hadad,  King  of  Damascus,  once  besieged  the  starving 
city  and  waited  for  its  surrender.  (II  Kings  vii.) 
There  in  the  twilight  of  long  ago  a  panic  terror 
whispered  through  the  camp,  and  the  Syrians  rose 
and  fled,  leaving  their  tents  and  their  gear  behind 
them.  And  there  four  nameless  lepers  of  Israel, 
wandering  in  their  despair,  found  the  vast  encamp- 
ment deserted,  and  entered  in,  and  ate  and  drank, 
and  picked  up  gold  and  silver,  until  their  conscience 
smote  them.  Then  they  climbed  up  to  this  gate 
with  the  good  news  that  the  enemy  had  vanished, 
and  the  city  was  saved. 


210 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 


IV 

DOTHAN  AND  THE  GOODNESS  OF  THE 
SAMARITAN 

OVER  the  steep  mountains  that  fence  Samaria  to 
the  north,  down  through  terraced  vales  abloom  with 
hawthorns  and  blood-red  poppies,  across  hill-circled 
plains  where  the  long,  silvery  wind-waves  roll  over 
the  sea  of  grain  from  shore  to  shore,  past  little  gray 
towns  sleeping  on  the  sunny  heights,  by  paths  that 
lead  us  near  flowing  springs  where  the  village  girls 
fill  their  pitchers,  and  down  stony  slopes  where 
the  goatherds  in  bright-coloured  raiment  tend  their 
flocks,  and  over  broad,  moist  fields  where  the  path 
has  been  obliterated  by  the  plough,  and  around  the 
edge  of  marshes  where  the  storks  rise  heavily  on  long 
flapping  wings,  we  come  galloping  at  sunset  to  our 
camp  beside  the  little  green  hill  of  Dothan. 

Behind  it  are  the  mountains,  swelling  and  softly 

rounded  like  breasts.    It  was  among  them  that  the 

servant  of  Elisha  saw  the  vision  of  horses  and  chariots 

of  fire  protecting  his  master.     (II  Kings  vi:  14-19.) 

211 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SAMARIA 

North  and  east  of  Dothan  the  plain  extends  smooth 
and  gently  sloping,  full  of  young  harvest.  There  the 
chariot  of  Naaman  rolled  when  he  came  down  from 
Damascus  to  be  healed  by  the  prophet  of  Israel. 
(II  Kings  v  :  9.) 

On  top  of  the  hill  is  a  spreading  terebinth-tree, 
with  some  traces  of  excavation  and  rude  ruins  be- 
neath it.  There  Joseph's  envious  brethren  cast  him 
into  one  of  the  dry  pits,  from  which  they  drew  him 
up  again  to  sell  him  to  a  caravan  of  merchants, 
winding  across  the  plain  on  their  way  from  Midian 
into  Egypt.  (Genesis  xxxvii.) 

Truly,  many  and  wonderful  things  came  to  pass 
of  old  around  this  little  green  hill.  And  now,  at  the 
foot  of  it,  there  is  a  well-watered  garden,  with  figs, 
oranges,  almonds,  vines,  and  tall,  trembling  poplars, 
surrounded  by  a  hedge  of  prickly  pear.  Outside  of 
the  hedge  a  big,  round  spring  of  crystal  water  is  flow- 
ing steadily  over  the  rim  of  its  basin  of  stones.  There 
the  flocks  and  herds  are  gathered,  morning  and 
evening,  to  drink.  There  the  children  of  the  tiny 
hamlet  on  the  hillside  come  to  paddle  their  feet  in 
the  running  stream.  There  a  caravan  of  Greek  pil- 
212 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

grims,  on  their  way  from  Damascus  to  Jerusalem  for 
Easter,  halt  in  front  of  our  camp,  to  refresh  them- 
selves with  a  draught  of  the  cool  water. 

As  we  watch  them  from  our  tents  there  is  a  sudden 
commotion  among  them,  a  cry  of  pain,  and  then 
voices  of  dismay.  George  and  two  or  three  of  our 
men  run  out  to  see  what  is  the  matter,  and  come 
hurrying  back  to  get  some  cotton  cloth  and  oil 
and  wine.  One  of  the  pilgrims,  an  old  woman  of 
seventy,  has  fallen  from  her  horse  on  the  sharp  stones 
beside  the  spring,  breaking  her  wrist  and  cutting  her 
head. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  way  in  which  they 
bound  up  that  poor  old  stranger's  wounds  was  sur- 
gically wise,  but  I  know  that  it  was  humanly  kind 
and  tender.  I  do  not  know  which  of  our  various 
churches  were  represented  among  her  helpers,  but 
there  must  have  been  at  least  three,  and  the  mule- 
teer from  Bagdad  who  "had  no  religion  but  sang 
beautiful  Persian  songs"  was  also  there,  and  ready 
to  help  with  the  others.  And  so  the  parable  which 
lighted  our  dusty  way  going  down  to  Jericho  is  in- 
terpreted in  our  pleasant  camp  at  Dothan. 
213 


THE    MOUNTAINS    OF   SAMARIA 

The  paths  of  the  Creeds  are  many  and  winding; 
they  cross  and  diverge;  but  on  all  of  them  the  Good 
Samaritan  is  welcome,  and  I  think  he  travels  to  a 
happy  place. 


214 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  HELPERS 

The  ways  of  the  world  are  full  of  haste  and  turmoil: 
I  will  sing  of  the  tribe  of  helpers  who  travel  in  peace. 

He  that  turneth  from  the  road  to  rescue  another, 
Turneth  toward  his  goal: 

He  shall  arrive  in  due  time  by  the  foot-path  of  mercy , 
God  will  be  his  guide. 

He  that  taketh  up  the  burden  of  the  fainting, 
Lighteneth  his  own  load: 

The  Almighty  will  put  his  arms  underneath  him, 
He  shall  lean  upon  the  Lord. 

He  that  speaketh  comfortable  words  to  mourners, 
Healeth  his  own  heart: 

In  his  time  of  grief  they  will  return  to  remembrance, 
God  will  use  them  for  balm. 

He  that  careth  for  the  sick  and  wounded, 
Watcheth  not  alone: 

There  are  three  in  the  darkness  together, 
And  the  third  is  the  Lord. 

Blessed  is  the  way  of  the  helpers: 
The  companions  of  the  Christ. 
215 


X 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 


THE  PLAIN  OF  ESDRAELON 

CjOING  from  Samaria  into  Galilee  is  like  passing 
from  the  Old  Testament  into  the  New. 

There  is  indeed  little  difference  in  the  outward 
landscape:  the  same  bare  lines  of  rolling  mountains, 
green  and  gray  near  by,  blue  or  purple  far  away; 
the  same  fertile  valleys  and  emerald  plains  embos- 
omed among  the  hills;  the  same  orchards  of  olive- 
trees,  not  quite  so  large,  nor  so  many,  but  always 
softening  and  shading  the  outlook  with  their  touches 
of  silvery  verdure. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  landscape  that  changes; 
the  inward  view;  the  atmosphere  of  memories 
and  associations  through  which  we  travel.  We 
have  been  riding  with  fierce  warriors  and  proud 
kings  and  fiery  prophets  of  Israel,  passing  the 
sites  of  royal  splendour  and  fields  of  ancient  havoc, 
retracing  the  warpaths  of  the  Twelve  Tribes.  But 
when  we  enter  Galilee  the  keynote  of  our  thoughts 
219 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

is  modulated  into  peace.  Issachar  and  Zebulon 
and  Asher  and  Naphtali  have  left  no  trace  or  mes- 
sage for  us  on  the  plains  and  hills  where  they 
once  lived  and  fought.  We  journey  with  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  the  friend  of  publicans  and  sinners,  the 
shepherd  of  the  lost  sheep,  the  human  embodiment 
of  the  Divine  Love. 

This  transition  in  our  journey  is  marked  out- 
wardly by  the  crossing  of  the  great  Plain  of  Es- 
draelon,  which  we  enter  by  the  gateway  of  Jenin. 
There  are  a  few  palm-trees  lending  a  little  grace  to 
the  disconsolate  village,  and  the  Turkish  captain  of 
the  military  post,  a  grizzled  veteran  of  Plevna,  in- 
vites us  into  the  guard-room  to  drink  coffee  with 
him,  while  we  wait  for  a  dilatory  telegraph  operator 
to  send  a  message.  Then  we  push  out  upon  the 
green  sea  to  a  brown  island :  the  village  of  Zer'in,  the 
ancient  Jezreel. 

The  wretched  hamlet  of  adobe  huts,  with  mud 
beehives  plastered  against  the  walls,  stands  on  the 
lowest  bench  of  the  foothills  of  Mount  Gilboa,  op- 
posite the  equally  wretched  hamlet  of  Sulem  in  a 
corresponding  position  at  the  base  of  a  mountain 
220 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

called  Little  Hermon.  The  widespread,  opulent  view 
is  haunted  with  old  stories  of  battle,  murder  and 
sudden  death. 

Down  to  the  east  we  see  the  line  of  brighter  green 
creeping  out  from  the  flanks  of  Mount  Gilboa,  mark- 
ing the  spring  where  Gideon  sifted  his  band  of  war- 
riors for  the  night-attack  on  the  camp  of  Midian. 
(Judges  vii  :  4-23.)  Under  the  brow  of  the  hill  are 
the  ancient  wine-presses,  cut  in  the  rock,  which  be- 
longed to  the  vineyard  of  Naboth,  whom  Jezebel 
assassinated.  (I  Kings  xxi:  1-16.)  From  some 
window  of  her  favourite  palace  on  this  eminence,  that 
hard,  old,  painted  queen  looked  down  the  broad 
valley  of  Jezreel,  and  saw  Jehu  in  his  chariot  driving 
furiously  from  Gilead  to  bring  vengeance  upon  her. 
On  those  dark  ridges  to  the  south  the  brave  Jona- 
than was  slain  by  the  Philistines  and  the  desperate 
Saul  fell  upon  his  own  sword.  (I  Samuel  xxxi:  1-6.) 
Through  that  open  valley,  which  slopes  so  gently 
down  to  the  Jordan  at  Bethshan,  the  hordes  of 
Midian  and  the  hosts  of  Damascus  marched  against 
Israel.  By  the  pass  of  Jenin,  Holof ernes  led  his 
army  in  triumph  until  he  met  Judith  of  Bethulia  and 
221 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

lost  his  head.  Yonder  in  the  corner  to  the  northward, 
at  the  base  of  Mount  Tabor,  Deborah  and  Barak 
gathered  the  tribes  against  the  Canaanites  under 
Sisera.  (Judges  iv:  4-22.)  Away  to  the  westward, 
in  the  notch  of  Megiddo,  Pharaoh-Necho's  archers 
pierced  King  Josiah,  and  there  was  great  mourning 
for  him  in  Hadad-rimmon.  (II  Chronicles  xxxv: 
24-25;  Zechariah  xii:  11.)  Farther  still,  where  the 
mountain  spurs  of  Galilee  approach  the  long  ridge 
of  Carmel,  Elijah  put  the  priests  of  Baal  to  death 
by  the  Brook  Kishon.  (I  Kings  xviii:  20^10.) 

All  over  that  great  prairie,  which  makes  a  broad 
break  between  the  highlands  of  Galilee  and  the 
highlands  of  Samaria  and  Judea,  and  opens  an  easy 
pathway  rising  no  more  than  three  hundred  feet 
between  the  Jordan  and  the  Mediterranean — all 
over  that  fertile,  blooming  area  and  around  the 
edges  of  it  are  sown  the  legends 

"Of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago." 

But  on  this  bright  April  day  when  we  enter  the  plain 
of  Armageddon,  everything  is  tranquil  and  joyous. 

222 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

The  fields  are  full  of  rustling  wheat,  and  bearded 
barley,  and  blue-green  stalks  of  beans,  and  feathery 
kirsenneh,  camel-provender.  The  peasants  in  their 
gay-coloured  clothing  are  ploughing  the  rich,  red- 
brown  soil  for  the  late  crop  of  dour  a.  The 
newly  built  railway  from  Haifa  to  Damascus  lies 
like  a  yellow  string  across  the  prairie  from  west  to 
east;  and  from  north  to  south  a  single  file  of  two 
hundred  camels,  with  merchandise  for  Egypt,  undu- 
late along  the  ancient  road  of  the  caravans,  turning 
their  ungainly  heads  to  look  at  the  puffing  engine 
which  creeps  toward  them  from  the  distance. 

Larks  singing  in  the  air,  storks  parading  beside  the 
watercourses,  falcons  poising  overhead,  poppies  and 
pink  gladioluses  and  blue  corn-cockles  blooming 
through  the  grain, — a  little  village  on  a  swell  of  rising 
ground,  built  for  their  farm  hands  by  the  rich  Greeks 
who  have  bought  the  land  and  brought  it  under  cul- 
tivation,— an  air  so  pure  and  soft  that  it  is  like  a 
caress, — all  seems  to  speak  a  language  of  peace  and 
promise,  as  if  one  of  the  old  prophets  were  telling  of 
the  day  when  Jehovah  shall  have  compassion  on  His 
people  Israel  and  restore  them.  "They  that  dwell 
223 


GALILEE   AND    THE    LAKE 

under  His  shadow  shall  return;  they  shall  revive  as 
the  grain,  and  blossom  as  the  vine:  the  scent  thereof 
shall  be  as  the  wine  of  Lebanon." 

It  is,  indeed,  not  impossible  that  wise  methods  of 
colonization,  better  agriculture  and  gardening,  the 
development  of  fruit-orchards  and  vineyards,  and 
above  all,  more  rational  government  and  equitable 
taxation  may  one  day  give  back  to  Palestine  some- 
thing of  her  old  prosperity  and  population.  If  the 
Jews  really  want  it  no  doubt  they  can  have  it. 
Their  rich  men  have  the  money  and  the  influence; 
and  there  are  enough  of  their  poorer  folk  scattered 
through  Europe  to  make  any  land  blossom  like  the 
rose,  if  they  have  the  will  and  the  patience  for  the 
slow  toil  of  the  husbandman  and  the  vine-dresser 
and  the  shepherd  and  the  herdsman. 

But  the  proud  kingdom  of  David  and  Solomon  will 
never  be  restored;  not  even  the  tributary  kingdom  of 
Herod.  For  the  land  will  never  again  stand  at  the 
crossroads,  the  four-corners  of  the  civilized  world. 
The  Suez  Canal  to  the  south,  and  the  railways  through 
the  Lebanon  and  Asia  Minor  to  the  north,  have  settled 
that.  They  have  left  Palestine  in  a  corner,  off  the 
224 


GALILEE   AND   THE    LAKE 

main-travelled  roads.  The  best  that  she  can  hope 
for  is  a  restoration  to  quiet  fruitfulness,  to  placid 
and  humble  industry,  to  olive-crowned  and  vine- 
girdled  felicity,  never  again  to  power. 

And  if  that  lowly  re-coronation  comes  to  her,  it 
will  not  be  on  the  stony  heights  around  Jerusalem: 
it  will  be  in  the  Plain  of  Sharon,  in  the  outgoings  of 
Mount  Ephraim,  in  the  green  pastures  of  Gilead,  in 
the  lovely  region  of  "Galilee  of  the  Gentiles."  It 
will  not  be  by  the  sword  of  Gideon  nor  by  the 
sceptre  of  Solomon,  but  by  the  sign  of  peace  on 
earth  and  good-will  among  men. 

With  thoughts  like  these  we  make  our  way  across 
the  verdurous  inland  sea  of  Esdraelon,  out  of  the 
Old  Testament  into  the  New.  Landmarks  of  the 
country  of  the  Gospel  begin  to  appear:  the  wooded 
dome  of  Mount  Tabor,  the  little  village  of  Nain 
where  Jesus  restored  the  widow's  only  son.  (Luke 
vii:  11-16.)  But  these  lie  far  to  our  right.  The 
beacon  which  guides  us  is  a  glimpse  of  white  walls 
and  red  roofs,  high  on  a  shoulder  of  the  Galilean 
hills :  the  outlying  houses  of  Nazareth,  where  the  boy 
Jesus  dwelt  with  His  parents  after  their  return  from 
225 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

the  flight  into  Egypt,  and  was  obedient  to  them,  and 
grew  in  wisdom  and  stature,  and  in  favour  with  God 
and  men. 

II 
THEIR    OWN    CITY    NAZARETH 

OUR  camp  in  Nazareth  is  on  a  terrace  among  the 
olive-trees,  on  the  eastern  side  of  a  small  valley, 
facing  the  Mohammedan  quarter  of  the  town. 

This  is  distinctly  the  most  attractive  little  city  that 
we  have  seen  in  Palestine.  The  houses  are  spread  out 
over  a  wider  area  than  is  usual  in  the  East,  covering 
three  sides  of  a  gentle  depression  high  on  the  side  of 
the  Jebel  es-Sikh,  and  creeping  up  the  hill-slopes  as  if 
to  seek  a  larger  view  and  a  purer  air.  Some  of  them 
have  gardens,  fair  white  walls,  red-tiled  roofs,  bal- 
conies of  stone  or  wrought  iron.  Even  in  the  more 
closely  built  portion  of  the  town  the  streets  seem 
cleaner,  the  bazaars  lighter  and  less  malodorous,  the 
interior  courtyards  into  which  we  glance  in  passing 
more  neat  and  homelike.  Many  of  the  doorways 
and  living-rooms  of  the  humbler  houses  are  freshly 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

whitewashed  with  a  light-blue  tint  which  gives  them 
iti  immaculate  air  of  cleanliness. 

The  Nazarene  women  are  generally  good  looking, 
aid  free  and  dignified  in  their  bearing.  The  children, 
fairer  in  complexion  than  is  common  in  Syria,  are 
almost  all  charming  with  the  beauty  of  youth,  and 
among  them  are  some  very  lovely  faces  of  boys  and 
girls.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Nazareth  appears  to 
us  an  earthly  paradise;  only  that  it  shines  by  contrast 
with  places  like  Hebron  and  Jericho  and  Nablus, 
even  with  Bethlehem,  and  that  we  find  here  far  less 
of  human  squalor  and  misery  to  sadden  us  with 
thoughts  of 

"  What  man  has  made  of  man." 

The  population  of  the  town  is  about  eleven  or 
twelve  thousand,  a  quarter  of  them  Mussulmans, 
and  the  rest  Christians  of  various  sects,  including 
two  or  three  hundred  Protestants.  The  people  used 
to  have  rather  a  bad  reputation  for  turbulence;  but  we 
see  no  signs  of  it,  either  in  the  appearance  of  the  city 
or  in  the  demeanour  of  the  inhabitants.  The  children 
and  the  townsfolk  whom  we  meet  in  the  streets,  and 
227 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

of  whom  we  ask  our  way  now  and  then,  are  civil  and 
friendly.  The  man  who  comes  to  the  camp  to  sell 
us  antique  coins  and  lovely  vases  of  iridescent 
glass  dug  from  the  tombs  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  may  be 
an  inveterate  humbug,  but  his  manners  are  good 
and  his  prices  are  low.  The  soft- voiced  women  and 
lustrous-eyed  girls  who  hang  about  the  Lady's  tent, 
persuading  her  to  buy  their  small  embroideries  and 
lace-work  and  trinkets,  are  gentle  and  ingratiating, 
though  persistent. 

I  am  honestly  of  the  opinion  that  Christian  mission- 
schools  and  hospitals  have  done  a  great  deal  for 
Nazareth.  We  go  this  morning  to  visit  the  schools 
of  the  English  Church  Missionary  Society,  where 
Miss  Newton  is  conducting  an  admirable  and  most 
successful  work  for  the  girls  of  Nazareth.  She 
is  away  on  a  visit  to  some  of  her  outlying  stations; 
but  the  dark-eyed,  happy-looking  Syrian  teacher 
shows  us  all  the  classes.  There  are  five  of  them,  and 
every  room  is  full  and  bright  and  orderly. 

On  the  Christian  side,  the  older  girls  sing  a  hymn 
for  us,  in  their  high  voices  and  quaint  English  accent, 
about  Jesus  stilling  the  storm  on  Galilee,  and  the  in- 
228 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

termediate  girls  and  the  tiny  co-educated  boys  and 
girls  in  the  kindergarten  go  through  various  pretty 
performances.  Then  the  teacher  leads  us  across  the 
street  to  the  two  Moslem  classes,  and  we  cannot  tell 
the  difference  between  them  and  the  Christian 
children,  except  that  now  the  singing  of  "Jesus 
loves  me"  and  the  recitation  of  "The  Lord  is  my 
Shepherd"  are  in  Arabic.  There  is  one  blind  girl  who 
recites  most  perfectly  and  eagerly.  Another  girl  of 
about  ten  years  carries  her  baby-brother  in  her 
arms.  Two  little  laggards,  (they  were  among  the 
group  at  our  camp  early  in  the  morning),  arrive 
late,  weeping  out  their  excuses  to  the  teacher.  She 
hears  them  with  a  kind,  humorous  look  on  her 
face,  gives  them  a  soft  rebuke  and  a  task,  and  sends 
them  to  their  seats,  their  tears  suddenly  transformed 
to  smiles. 

From  the  schools  we  go  to  the  hospital  of  the 
British  Medical  Mission,  a  little  higher  up  the  hill. 
We  find  young  Doctor  Scrimgeour,  who  has  lately 
come  out  from  Edinburgh  University,  and  his  white- 
uniformed,  cheerful,  busy  nurses,  tasked  to  the 
limit  of  their  strength  by  the  pressure  of  their  work, 
229 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

but  cordial  and  simple  in  their  welcome.  As  I  walk 
with  the  doctor  on  his  rounds  I  see  every  ward  full, 
and  all  kinds  of  calamity  and  suffering  waiting  for 
the  relief  and  help  of  his  kind,  skilful  knife.  Here 
are  hernia,  and  tuberculous  glands,  and  cataract, 
and  stone,  and  bone  tuberculosis,  and  a  score  of 
other  miseries;  and  there,  on  the  table,  with  pale, 
dark  face  and  mysterious  eyes,  lies  a  man  whose  knee 
has  been  shattered  by  a  ball  from  a  Martini  rifle  in 
an  affray  with  robbers. 

"Was  he  one  of  the  robbers,"  I  ask,  "or  one  of 
the  robbed?" 

"I  really  don't  know,"  says  the  doctor,  "but  in 
a  few  minutes  I  am  going  to  do  my  best  for  him." 

Is  not  this  Christ's  work  that  is  still  doing  in 
Christ's  town,  this  teaching  of  the  children,  this 
helping  of  the  sick  and  wounded,  for  His  sake,  and 
in  His  name  ?  Yet  there  are  silly  folk  who  say  they 
do  not  believe  in  missions. 

There   are   a   few   so-called    sacred    places   and 

shrines   in   Nazareth — the   supposed   scene   of  the 

Annunciation;   the  traditional  Workshop  of  Joseph; 

the  alleged  Mensa  Christi,  a  flat  stone  which  He  is 

230 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

said  to  have  used  as  a  table  when  He  ate  with  His 
disciples;  and  so  on.  But  all  these  uncertain  relics 
and  memorials,  as  usual,  are  inclosed  in  chapels,  belit 
with  lamps,  and  encircled  with  ceremonial.  The 
very  spring  at  which  the  Virgin  Mary  must  have 
often  filled  her  pitcher,  (for  it  is  the  only  flowing 
fountain  in  the  town),  now  rises  beneath  the  Greek 
Church  of  Saint  Gabriel,  and  is  conducted  past  the 
altar  in  a  channel  of  stone  where  the  pilgrims  bathe 
their  eyes  and  faces.  To  us,  who  are  seeking  our 
Holy  Land  out-of-doors,  these  shut-in  shrines  and 
altared  memorials  are  less  significant  than  what  we 
find  in  the  open,  among  the  streets  and  on  the  sur- 
rounding hillsides. 

The  Virgin's  Fountain,  issuing  from  the  church, 
flows  into  a  big,  stone  basin  under  a  round  arch. 
Here,  as  often  as  we  pass,  we  see  the  maidens  and 
the  mothers  of  Nazareth,  with  great  earthen  vessels 
poised  upon  their  shapely  heads,  coming  with  merry 
talk  and  laughter,  to  draw  water.  Even  so  the 
mother  of  Jesus  must  have  come  to  this  fountain 
many  a  time,  perhaps  with  her  wondrous  boy  run- 
ning beside  her,  clasping  her  hand  or  a  fold  of  her 
231 


GALILEE    AND   THE    LAKE 

bright-coloured  garment.  Perhaps,  when  the  child 
was  little  she  carried  Him  on  her  shoulder,  as  the 
women  carry  their  children  to-day. 

Passing  through  a  street,  we  look  into  the  interior 
of  a  carpenter-shop,  with  its  simple  tools,  its  little  pile 
of  new  lumber,  its  floor  littered  with  chips  and  shav- 
ings, and  its  air  full  of  the  pleasant  smell  of  freshly 
cut  wood.  There  are  a  few  articles  of  furniture 
which  the  carpenter  has  made:  a  couple  of  chairs, 
a  table,  a  stool :  and  he  himself,  with  his  leg  stretched 
out  and  his  piece  of  wood  held  firmly  by  his  naked 
toes,  is  working  busily  at  a  tiny  bed  which  needs 
only  a  pair  of  rockers  to  become  a  cradle.  Outside 
the  door  of  the  shop  a  boy  of  ten  or  twelve  is  cutting 
some  boards  and  slats,  and  putting  them  neatly  to- 
gether. We  ask  him  what  he  is  making.  "A  box," 
he  answers,  "a  box  for  some  doves" — and  then  bends 
his  head,  over  his  absorbing  task.  Even  so  Jesus 
must  have  worked  at  the  shop  of  Joseph,  the  car- 
penter, and  learned  His  handicraft. 

Let  us  walk  up,  at  eventide,  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
behind  the  town.  Here  is  one  of  the  loveliest  views 
in  all  Palestine.  The  sun  is  setting  and  the  clear- 
232 


The  Virgin's  Fountain,  Nazareth. 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

obscure  of  twilight  already  rests  over  the  streets  and 
houses,  the  minarets  and  spires,  the  slender  cypresses 
and  round  olive-trees  and  grotesque  hedges  of  cactus. 
But  on  the  heights  the  warm  radiance  from  the  west 
pours  its  full  flood,  lighting  up  all  the  flowerets  of 
delicate  pink  flax  and  golden  chrysanthemum  and 
blue  campanula  with  which  the  grass  is  broidered. 
Far  and  wide  that  roseate  illumination  spreads  itself; 
changing  the  snowy  mantle  of  distant  Hermon,  the 
great  Sheikh  of  Mountains,  from  ermine  to  flamingo 
feathers;  making  the  high  hills  of  Naphtali  and  the 
excellency  of  Carmel  glow  as  if  with  soft,  transfigur- 
ing, inward  fire;  touching  the  little  town  of  Saffu- 
riyeh  below  us,  where  they  say  that  the  Virgin  Mary 
was  born,  and  the  city  of  Safed,  thirty  miles  away 
on  the  lofty  shoulder  of  Jebel  Jermak;  suffusing  the 
haze  that  fills  the  Valley  of  the  Jordan,  and  the  long 
bulwarks  of  the  Other-Side,  with  hues  of  mauve  and 
purple;  and  bathing  the  wide  expanse  of  the  western 
sea  with  indescribable  splendours,  over  which  the 
flaming  sun  poises  for  a  moment  beneath  the  edge 
of  a  low-hung  cloud. 

On  this  hilltop,  I  doubt  not,  the  boy  Jesus  often 
233 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

filled  His  hands  with  flowers.  Here  He  could  watch 
the  creeping  caravans  of  Arabian  merchants,  and 
the  glittering  legions  of  Roman  soldiers,  and  the 
slow  files  of  Jewish  pilgrims,  coming  up  from  the 
Valley  of  Jezreel  and  stretching  out  across  the  Plain 
of  Esdraelon.  Hither,  at  the  evening  hour,  He  came 
as  a  youth  to  find  the  blessing  of  wide  and  tranquil 
thought.  Here,  when  the  burden  of  manhood  pressed 
upon  Him,  He  rested  after  the  day's  work,  free  from 
that  sadness  which  often  touches  us  in  the  vision 
of  earth's  transient  beauty,  because  He  saw  far 
beyond  the  horizon  into  the  spirit- world,  where  there 
is  no  night,  nor  weariness,  nor  sin,  nor  death. 

For  nearly  thirty  years  He  must  have  lived  within 
sight  of  this  hilltop.  And  then,  one  day,  He  came 
back  from  a  journey  to  the  Jordan  and  Jerusalem, 
and  entered  into  the  little  synagogue  at  the  foot  of 
this  hill,  and  began  to  preach  to  His  townsfolk  His 
glad  tidings  of  spiritual  liberty  and  brotherhood  and 
eternal  life. 

But  they  were  filled  with  scorn  and  wrath.  His 
words  rebuked  them,  stung  them,  inflamed  them 
with  hatred.  They  laid  violent  hands  on  Him,  and 
234 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

led  Him  out  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, — perhaps  it  was 
yonder  on  that  steep,  rocky  peak  to  the  south  of  the 
town,  looking  back  toward  the  country  of  the  Old 
Testament, — to  cast  Him  down  headlong. 

Yet  I  think  there  must  have  been  a  few  friends 
and  lovers  of  His  in  that  disdainful  and  ignorant 
crowd;  for  He  passed  through  the  midst  of  them 
unharmed,  and  went  His  way  to  the  home  of  Peter 
and  Andrew  and  John  and  Philip,  beside  the  Sea  of 
Galilee,  never  to  come  back  to  Nazareth. 

Ill 
A    WEDDING    IN    CANA    OF    GALILEE 

WE  thought  to  save  a  little  time  on  our  journey, 
and  perhaps  to  spare  ourselves  a  little  jolting  on  the 
hard  high-road,  by  sending  the  saddle-horses  ahead' 
with  the  caravan,  and  taking  a  carriage  for  the  six- 
teen-mile drive  to  Tiberias.  When  we  came  to  the 
old  sarcophagus  which  serves  as  a  drinking  trough 
at  the  spring  outside  the  village  of  Cana,  a  strange 
thing  befell  us. 

We  had  halted  for  a  moment  to  refresh  the  horses. 
235 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of  furious  galloping  on 
the  road  behind  us.  A  score  of  cavaliers  in  Bedouin 
dress,  with  guns  and  swords,  came  after  us  in  hot 
haste.  The  leaders  dashed  across  the  open  space 
beside  the  spring,  wheeled  their  foaming  horses  and 
dashed  back  again. 

"Is  this  our  affair  with  robbers,  at  last  ?"  we  asked 
George. 

He  laughed  a  little.  "No,"  said  he,  "this  is  the 
beginning  of  a  wedding  in  Kafr  Kenna.  The  bride- 
groom and  his  friends  come  over  from  some  other 
village  where  they  live,  to  show  off  a  bit  of  fantasia 
to  the  bride  and  her  friends.  They  carry  her  back 
with  them  after  the  marriage.  We  wait  a  while  and 
see  how  they  ride." 

The  horses  were  gayly  caparisoned  with  ribbons 
and  tassels  and  embroidered  saddle-cloths.  The 
riders  were  handsome,  swarthy  fellows  with  haughty 
faces.  Their  eyes  glanced  sideways  at  us  to  see 
whether  we  were  admiring  them,  as  they  shouted  their 
challenges  to  one  another  and  raced  wildly  up  and 
down  the  rock-strewn  course,  with  their  robes  flying 
and  their  horses'  sides  bloody  with  spurring.  One 
236 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

of  the  men  was  a  huge  coal-black  Nubian  who  bran- 
dished a  naked  sword  as  he  rode.  Others  whirled 
their  long  muskets  in  the  air  and  yelled  furiously. 
The  riding  was  cruel,  reckless,  superb;  loose  reins 
and  loose  stirrups  on  the  headlong  gallop;  then  the 
sharp  curb  brought  the  horse  up  suddenly,  the  rein 
on  his  neck  turned  him  as  if  on  a  pivot,  and  the 
pressure  of  the  heel  sent  him  flying  back  over  the 
course. 

Presently  there  was  a  sound  of  singing  and  clap- 
ping hands  behind  the  high  cactus-hedges  to  our 
left,  and  from  a  little  lane  the  bridal  procession 
walked  up  to  take  the  high-road  to  the  village.  There 
were  a  dozen  men  in  front,  firing  guns  and  shouting, 
then  came  the  women,  with  light  veils  of  gauze  over 
their  faces,  singing  shrilly,  and  in  the  midst  of  them, 
in  gay  attire,  but  half-concealed  with  long,  dark 
mantles,  the  bride  and  "  the  virgins,  her  companions, 
in  raiment  of  needlework." 

As  they  saw  the  photographic  camera  pointed  at 

them  they  laughed,  and  crowded  closer  together, 

and  drew  the  ends  of  their  dark  mantles  over  their 

heads.    So  they  passed  up  the  road,  their  shrill  song 

237 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

broken  a  little  by  their  laughter;  and  the  company 
of  horsemen,  the  bridegroom  and  his  friends,  wheeled 
into  line,  two  by  two,  and  trotted  after  them  into 
the  village. 

This  was  all  that  we  saw  of  the  wedding  at  Kafr 
Kenna — just  a  vivid,  mysterious  flash  of  human  fig- 
ures, drawn  together  by  the  primal  impulse  and 
longing  of  our  common  nature,  garbed  and  ordered 
by  the  social  customs  which  make  different  lands 
and  ages  seem  strange  to  each  other,  and  moving 
across  the  narrow  stage  of  Time  into  the  dimness  of 
that  Arab  village,  where  Jesus  and  His  mother  and 
His  disciples  were  guests  at  a  wedding  long  ago. 

IV 
TIBERIAS 

IT  is  one  of  the  ironies  of  fate  that  the  lake  which 
saw  the  greater  part  of  the  ministry  of  Jesus,  should 
take  its  modern  name  from  a  city  built  by  Herod 
Antipas,  and  called  after  one  of  the  most  infamous 
of  the  Roman  Emperors, — "the  Sea  of  Tiberias." 

Our  road  to  this  city  of  decadence  leads  gradually 
238 


GALILEE   AND    THE    LAKE 

downward,  through  a  broad,  sinking  moorland, 
covered  with  weeds  and  wild  flowers — rich,  monot- 
onous, desolate.  The  broidery  of  pink  flax  and  yel- 
low chrysanthemums  and  white  marguerites  still 
follows  us;  but  now  the  wider  stretches  of  thistles 
and  burdocks  and  daturas  and  cockleburs  and 
water-plantains  seem  to  be  more  important.  The 
landscape  saddens  around  us,  under  the  deepening 
haze  of  the  desert- wind,  the  sombre  Sherkiyeh.  There 
are  no  golden  sunbeams,  no  cool  cloud-shadows, 
only  a  gray  and  melancholy  illumination  growing 
ever  fainter  and  more  nebulous  as  the  day  declines, 
and  the  outlines  of  the  hills  fade  away  from  the  dim, 
silent,  forsaken  plain  through  which  we  move. 

We  are  crossing  the  battlefield  where  the  soldiers 
of  Napoleon,  under  the  brave  Junot,  fought  desper- 
ately against  the  overwhelming  forces  of  the  Turks. 
Yonder,  away  to  the  left,  in  the  mysterious  haze,  the 
double  "Horns  of  Hattin"  rise  like  a  shadowy  ex- 
halation. 

That  is  said  to  be  the  mountain  where  Jesus 
gathered  the  multitude  around  Him  and  spoke 
His  new  beatitudes  on  the  meek,  the  merciful,  the 
239 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

peacemakers,  the  pure  in  heart.  It  is  certainly  the 
place  where  the  hosts  of  the  Crusaders  met  the  army 
of  Saladin,  in  the  fierce  heat  of  a  July  day,  seven 
hundred  years  ago,  and  while  the  burning  grass  and 
weeds  and  brush  flamed  around  them,  were  cut  to 
pieces  and  trampled  and  utterly  consumed.  There 
the  new  Kingdom  of  Jerusalem, — the  last  that  was 
won  with  the  sword, — went  down  in  ruin  around  the 
relics  of  "the  true  cross,"  which  its  soldiers  carried 
as  their  talisman;  and  Guy  de  Lusignan,  their 
King,  was  captured.  The  noble  prisoners  were  in- 
vited by  Saladin  to  his  tent,  and  he  offered  them 
sherbets,  cooled  with  snow  from  Hermon,  to  slake 
their  feverish  thirst.  When  they  were  refreshed,  the 
conqueror  ordered  them  to  be  led  out  and  put  to  the 
sword, — just  yonder  at  the  foot  of  the  Mount  of 
Beatitudes. 

From  terrace  to  terrace  of  the  falling  moor  we  roll 
along  the  winding  road  through  the  brumous  twilight, 
until  we  come  within  sight  of  the  black,  ruined 
walls,  the  gloomy  towers,  the  huddled  houses  of  the 
worn-out  city  of  Tiberias.  She  is  like  an  ancient 
beggar  sitting  on  a  rocky  cape  beside  the  lake  and 
240 


GALILEE   AND    THE    LAKE 

bathing  her  feet  in  the  invisible  water.  The  gathering 
dusk  lends  a  sullen  and  forlorn  aspect  to  the  place. 
Behind  us  rise  the  shattered  volcanic  crags  and  cliffs 
of  basalt;  before  us  glimmer  pallid  and  ghostly 
touches  of  light  from  the  hidden  waves ;  a  few  lamps 
twinkle  here  and  there  in  the  dormant  town. 

This  was  the  city  which  Herod  Antipas  built  for 
the  capital  of  his  Province  of  Galilee.  He  laid  its 
foundations  in  an  ancient  graveyard,  and  stretched 
its  walls  three  miles  along  the  lake,  adorning  it  with 
a  palace,  a  forum,  a  race-course,  and  a  large  syna- 
gogue. But  to  strict  Jews  the  place  was  unclean, 
because  it  was  defiled  with  Roman  idols,  and  be- 
cause its  builders  had  polluted  themselves  by  dig- 
ging up  the  bones  of  the  dead.  Herod  could  get  few 
Jews  to  live  in  his  city,  and  it  became  a  catch-all  for 
the  off-scourings  of  the  land,  people  of  all  creeds  and 
none,  aliens,  mongrels,  soldiers  of  fortune,  and  citi- 
zens of  the  high-road.  It  was  the  strongest  fortress 
and  probably  the  richest  town  of  Galilee  in  Christ's 
day,  but  so  far  as  we  know  He  never  entered  it. 

After  the  fall  of  Jerusalem,  strangely  enough,  the 
Jews  made  it  their  favourite  city,  the  seat  of  their 
241 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

Sanhedrim  and  the  centre  of  rabbinical  learning. 
Here  the  famous  Rabbis  Jehuda  and  Akiba  and  the 
philosopher  Maimonides  taught.  Here  the  Mishna 
and  the  Gemara  were  written.  And  here,  to-day, 
two-thirds  of  the  five  thousand  inhabitants  are  Jews, 
many  of  them  living  on  the  charity  of  their  kindred 
in  Europe,  and  spending  their  time  in  the  study  of 
the  Talmud  while  they  wait  for  the  Messiah  who  shall 
restore  the  kingdom  to  Israel.  You  may  see  their 
flat  fur  caps,  dingy  gabardines,  long  beards  and 
melancholy  faces  on  every  street  in  the  drowsy  little 
city,  dreaming  (among  fleas  and  fevers)  of  I  know 
not  what  impossible  glories  to  come. 

You  may  see,  also,  on  the  hill  near  the  Serai,  the 
splendid  Mission  Hospital  of  the  United  Free 
Church  of  Scotland,  where  for  twenty-three  years 
Doctor  Torrance  has  been  ministering  to  the  body 
and  soul  of  Tiberias  in  the  name  of  Jesus.  Do  you 
find  the  building  too  large  and  fine,  the  lovely  garden 
too  beautiful  with  flowers,  the  homes  of  the  doctors, 
and  teachers,  and  helpers  of  the  sick  and  wounded, 
too  clean  and  healthful  and  orderly?  Do  you  say 
"To  what  purpose  is  this  waste?"  Then  I  know 
242 


GALILEE    AND   THE    LAKE 

not  how  to  measure  your  ignorance.  For  you  have 
failed  to  see  that  this  is  the  embassy  of  the  only  King 
who  still  cares  for  the  true  welfare  of  this  forsaken, 
bedraggled,  broken-down  Tiberias. 

On  the  evening  of  our  arrival,  however,  all  these 
things  are  hidden  from  us  in  the  dusk.  We  drive 
past  the  ruined  gate  of  the  city,  a  mile  along  the 
southern  road  toward  the  famous  Hot  Baths.  Here, 
on  a  little  terrace  above  the  lake,  between  the  road 
and  the  black  basalt  cliffs,  our  camp  is  pitched,  and 
through  the  darkness 

'  We  hear  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.' 

In  the  freshness  of  the  early  morning  the  sunrise 
pours  across  the  lake  into  our  tents.  There  is  a 
light,  cool  breeze  blowing  from  the  north,  rippling 
the  clear,  green  water,  (of  a  hue  like  the  stone  called 
aqua  marina),  with  a  thousand  flaws  and  wrinkles, 
which  catch  the  flashing  light  and  reflect  the  deep 
blue  sky,  and  change  beneath  the  shadow  of  floating 
clouds  to  innumerable  colours  of  lapis  lazuli,  and 
violet,  and  purple,  and  peacock  blue. 
243 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

The  old  comparison  of  the  shape  of  the  lake  to  a 
lute,  or  a  harp,  is  not  clear  to  us  from  the  point  at 
which  we  stand:  for  the  northwestward  sweep  of 
the  bay  of  Gennesaret,  which  reaches  a  breadth  of 
nearly  eight  miles  from  the  eastern  shore,  is  hidden 
from  us  by  a  promontory,  where  the  dark  walls  and 
white  houses  of  Tiberias  slope  to  the  water.  But 
we  can  see  the  full  length  of  the  lake,  from  the  de- 
pression of  the  Jordan  Valley  at  the  southern  end,  to 
the  shores  of  Bethsaida  and  Capernaum  at  the  foot 
of  the  northern  hills,  beyond  which  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  Hermon  is  visible. 

Opposite  rise  the  eastern  heights  of  the  Jaulan, 
with  almost  level  top  and  steep  flanks,  furrowed  by 
rocky  ravines,  descending  precipitously  to  a  strip  of 
smooth,  green  shore.  Behind  us  the  mountains  are 
more  broken  and  varied  in  form,  lifted  into  sharper 
peaks  and  sloped  into  broader  valleys.  The  whole 
aspect  of  the  scene  is  like  a  view  in  the  English  Lake 
country,  say  on  Windermere  or  Ullswater;  only  there 
are  no  forests  or  thickets  to  shade  and  soften  it. 
Every  edge  of  the  hills  is  like  a  silhouette  against 
the  sky;  every  curve  of  the  shore  clear  and  distinct. 
244 


GALILEE   AND    THE    LAKE 

Of  the  nine  rich  cities  which  once  surrounded  the 
lake,  none  is  left  except  this  ragged  old  Tiberias.  Of 
the  hundreds  of  fishing  boats  and  passenger  vessels 
which  once  crossed  its  waters,  all  have  vanished  ex- 
cept half  a  dozen  little  pleasure  skiffs  kept  for  the 
use  of  tourists.  Of  the  armies  and  caravans  which 
once  travelled  these  shores,  all  have  passed  by  into  the 
eternal  far-away,  except  the  motley  string  of  visitors 
to  the  Hot  Springs,  who  were  coming  up  to  bathe 
in  the  medicinal  waters  in  the  days  of  Joshua  when 
the  place  was  called  Hammath,  and  in  the  time  of 
the  Greeks  when  it  was  named  Emmaus,  and  who 
are  still  trotting  along  the  road  in  front  of  our  camp 
toward  the  big,  white  dome  and  dirty  bath-houses  of 
Hummam.  They  come  from  all  parts  of  Syria,  from 
Damascus  and  the  sea-coast,  from  Judea  and  the 
Hauran;  Greeks  and  Arabs  and  Turks  and  Maron- 
ites  and  Jews;  on  foot,  on  donkey-back,  and  in  lit- 
ters. Now,  it  is  a  cavalcade  of  Druses  from  the 
Lebanon,  men,  women  and  children,  riding  on  tired 
horses.  Now,  it  is  a  procession  of  Hebrews  walking 
with  a  silken  canopy  over  the  sacred  books  of  their 

law. 

245 


GALILEE   AND   THE   LAKE 

In  the  morning  we  visit  Tiberias,  buy  some  bread 
and  fish  in  the  market,  and  go  through  the  Mission 
Hospital,  where  one  of  the  gentle  nurses  binds  up  a 
foolish  little  wound  on  my  wrist. 

In  the  afternoon  we  sail  on  the  southern  part  of  the 
lake.  The  boatmen  laugh  at  my  fruitless  fishing  with 
artificial  flies,  and  catch  a  few  small  fish  for  us  with 
their  nets  in  the  shallow,  muddy  places  along  the 
shore.  The  wind  is  strange  and  variable,  now 
sweeping  down  in  violent  gusts  that  bend  the  long 
arm  of  the  lateen  sail,  now  dying  away  to  a  dead 
calm  through  which  we  row  lazily  home. 

I  remember  a  small  purple  kingfisher  poising  in  the 
air  over  a  shoal,  his  head  bent  downward,  his  wings 
vibrating  swiftly.  He  drops  like  a  shot  and  comes  up 
out  of  the  water  with  a  fish  held  crosswise  in  his  bill. 
With  measured  wing-strokes  he  flits  to  the  top  of  a 
rock  to  eat  his  supper,  and  a  robber-gull  flaps  after 
him  to  take  it  away.  But  the  industrious  kingfisher 
is  too  quick  to  be  robbed.  He  bolts  his  fish  with  a 
single  gulp.  We  eat  ours  in  more  leisurely  fashion, 
by  the  light  of  the  candles  in  our  peaceful  tent. 


246 


GALILEE    AND   THE    LAKE 


MEMORIES  OF  THE   LAKE 

A  HUNDRED  little  points  of  illumination  flash  into 
memory  as  I  look  back  over  the  hours  that  we  spent 
beside  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  How  should  I  write  of 
them  all  without  being  tedious  ?  How,  indeed, 
should  I  hope  to  make  them  visible  or  significant  in 
the  bare  words  of  description  ? 

Never  have  I  passed  richer,  fuller  hours;  but 
most  of  their  wealth  was  in  very  little  things:  the 
personal  look  of  a  flower  growing  by  the  wayside; 
the  intimate  message  of  a  bird's  song  falling  through 
the  sunny  air;  the  expression  of  confidence  and 
appeal  on  the  face  of  a  wounded  man  in  the  hospital, 
when  the  good  physician  stood  beside  his  cot;  the 
shadows  of  the  mountains  lengthening  across  the 
valleys  at  sunset;  the  laughter  of  a  little  child  play- 
ing with  a  broken  water  pitcher;  the  bronzed  pro- 
files and  bold,  free  ways  of  our  sunburned  rowers; 
the  sad  eyes  of  an  old  Hebrew  lifted  from  the  book 
that  he  was  reading;  the  ruffling  breezes  and  sud- 
den squalls  that  changed  the  surface  of  the  lake;  the 
247 


GALILEE    AND    THE    LAKE 

single  palm-tree  that  waved  over  the  mud  hovels  of 
Magdala;  the  millions  of  tiny  shells  that  strewed 
the  beach  of  Capernaum  and  Bethsaida;  the  fer- 
tile sweep  of  the  Plain  of  Gennesaret  rising  from 
the  lake;  and  the  dark  precipices  of  the  "Robbers' 
Gorge"  running  back  into  the  western  mountains. 

The  written  record  of  these  hours  is  worth  little; 
but  in  experience  and  in  memory  they  have  a  mystical 
meaning  and  beauty,  because  they  belong  to  the 
country  where  Jesus  walked  with  His  fishermen- 
disciples,  and  took  the  little  children  in  His  arms, 
and  healed  the  sick,  and  opened  blind  eyes  to  behold 
ineffable  things. 

Every  touch  that  brings  that  country  nearer  to 
us  in  our  humanity  and  makes  it  more  real,  more 
simple,  more  vivid,  is  precious.  For  the  one  irrep- 
arable loss  that  could  befall  us  in  religion, — a  loss 
that  is  often  threatened  by  our  abstract  and  theo- 
retical ways  of  thinking  and  speaking  about  Him, — 
would  be  to  lose  Jesus  out  of  the  lowly  and  familiar 
ways  of  our  mortal  life.  He  entered  these  lowly  ways 
as  the  Son  of  Man  in  order  to  make  us  sure  that 
we  are  the  children  of  God. 
248 


GALILEE   AND   THE   LAKE 

Therefore  I  am  glad  of  every  hour  spent  by  the 
Lake  of  Galilee. 


I  remember,  when  we  came  across  in  our  boat  to 
Tell  Hum,  where  the  ancient  city  of  Capernaum 
stood,  the  sun  was  shining  with  a  fervent  heat  and 
the  air  of  the  lake,  six  hundred  and  eighty  feet  below 
the  level  of  the  sea,  was  soft  and  languid.  The  gray- 
bearded  German  monk  who  came  to  meet  us  at  the 
landing  and  admitted  us  to  the  inclosure  of  his  little 
monastery  where  he  was  conducting  the  excavation 
of  the  ruins,  wore  a  cork  helmet  and  spectacles.  He 
had  been  heated,  even  above  the  ninety  degrees 
Fahrenheit  which  the  thermometer  marked,  by  the 
rudeness  of  a  couple  of  tourists  who  had  just  tried 
to  steal  a  photograph  of  his  work.  He  had  foiled 
them  by  opening  their  camera  and  blotting  the  film 
with  sunlight,  and  had  then  sent  them  away  with 
fervent  words.  But  as  he  walked  with  us  among 
his  roses  and  Pride  of  India  trees,  his  spirit  cooled 
within  him,  and  he  showed  himself  a  learned  and 
accomplished  man. 

He  told  us  how  Le  had  been  working  there  for  two 
249 


GALILEE   AND   THE   LAKE 

or  three  years,  keeping  records  and  drawings  and 
photographs  of  everything  that  was  found ;  going  back 
to  the  Franciscan  convent  at  Jerusalem  for  his  short 
vacation  in  the  heat  of  mid-summer;  putting  his 
notes  in  order,  reading  and  studying,  making  ready 
to  write  his  book  on  Capernaum.  He  showed  us  the 
portable  miniature  railway  which  he  had  made;  and 
the  little  iron  cars  to  carry  away  the  great  piles  of 
rubbish  and  earth;  and  the  rich  columns,  carved  lin- 
tels, marble  steps  and  shell-niches  of  the  splendid 
building  which  his  workmen  had  uncovered.  The 
outline  was  clear  and  perfect.  We  could  see  how  the 
edifice  of  fine,  white  limestone  had  been  erected  upon 
an  older  foundation  of  basalt,  and  how  an  earthquake 
had  twisted  it  and  shaken  down  its  pillars.  It  was 
undoubtedly  a  synagogue,  perhaps  the  very  same 
which  the  rich  Roman  centurion  built  for  the  Jews 
in  Capernaum  (Luke  vii:  5),  and  where  Jesus 
healed  the  man  who  had  an  unclean  spirit.  (Luke 
iv:  31-37.)  Of  all  the  splendours  of  that  proud  city 
of  the  lake,  once  spreading  along  a  mile  of  the  shore, 
nothing  remained  but  these  tumbled  ruins  in  a  lonely, 
fragrant  garden,  where  the  patient  father  was  dig- 
250 


GALILEE   AND   THE    LAKE 

ging  with  his  Arab  workmen  and  getting  ready  to 
write  his  book. 

"Weh  dir,  Capernaum  "  I  quoted.  The  padre 
nodded  his  head  gravely.  "  Ja,  ja,"  said  he,  "es  ist 
buchstdblich  erfulU  /" 

I  remember  the  cool  bath  in  the  lake,  at  a  point 
between  Bethsaida  and  Capernaum,  where  a  tangle 
of  briony  and  honeysuckle  made  a  shelter  around 
a  shell-strewn  beach,  and  the  rosy  oleanders  bloomed 
beside  an  inflowing  stream.  I  swam  out  a  little  way 
and  floated,  looking  up  into  the  deep  sky,  while  the 
waves  plashed  gently  and  caressingly  around  my  face. 

I  remember  the  old  Arab  fisherman,  who  was 
camped  with  his  family  in  a  black  tent  on  a  meadow 
where  several  lively  brooks  came  in  (one  of  them 
large  enough  to  turn  a  mill).  I  persuaded  him  by 
gestures  to  wade  out  into  the  shallow  part  of  the  lake 
and  cast  his  bell-net  for  fish.  He  gathered  the  net 
in  his  hand,  and  whirled  it  around  his  head.  The 
leaden  weights  around  the  bottom  spread  out  in  a 
wide  circle  and  splashed  into  the  water.  He  drew 
the  net  toward  him  by  the  cord,  the  ring  of  sinkers 
251 


GALILEE    AND    THE   LAKE 

sweeping  the  bottom,  and  lifted  it  slowly,  carefully — 
but  no  fish! 

Then  I  rigged  up  my  pocket  fly-rod  with  a  gossa- 
mer leader  and  two  tiny  trout-flies,  a  Royal  Coach- 
man and  a  Queen  of  the  Water,  and  began  to  cast 
along  the  crystal  pools  and  rapids  of  the  larger 
stream.  How  merrily  the  fish  rose  there,  and  in  the 
ripples  where  the  brooks  ran  out  into  the  lake.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  different  kinds  of  fish,  but  I  did 
not  know  the  name  of  any  of  them.  There  was  one 
that  looked  like  a  black  bass,  and  others  like  white 
perch  and  sunfish;  and  one  kind  was  very  much  like 
a  grayling.  But  they  were  not  really  of  the  salmo 
family,  I  knew,  for  none  of  them  had  the  soft  fin  in 
front  of  the  tail.  How  surprised  the  old  fisherman 
was  when  he  saw  the  fish  jumping  at  those  tiny  hooks 
with  feathers;  and  how  round  the  eyes  of  his  chil- 
dren were  as  they  looked  on ;  and  how  pleased  they 
were  with  the  bakhshish  which  they  received,  in- 
cluding a  couple  of  baithooks  for  the  eldest  boy! 

I  remember  the  place  where  we  ate  our  lunch  in 
a  small  grove  of  eucalyptus-trees,  with  sweet-smell- 
252 


GALILEE   AND    THE   LAKE 

ing  yellow  acacias  blossoming  around  us.  It  was 
near  the  site  which  some  identify  with  the  ancient 
Bethsaida,  but  others  say  that  it  was  farther  to  the 
east,  and  others  again  say  that  Capernaum  was 
really  located  here.  The  whole  problem  of  these 
lake  cities,  where  they  stood,  how  they  supported 
such  large  populations  (not  less  than  fifteen  thou- 
sand people  in  each),  is  difficult  and  may  never  be 
solved.  But  it  did  not  trouble  us  deeply.  We  were 
content  to  be  beside  the  same  waters,  among  the 
same  hills,  that  Jesus  knew  and  loved. 

It  was  here,  along  this  shore,  that  He  found  Simon 
and  his  brother  Andrew  casting  their  net,  and  James 
and  his  brother  John  mending  theirs,  and  called 
them  to  come  with  Him.  These  fishermen,  with 
their  frank  and  free  hearts  unspoiled  by  the  sophis- 
tries of  the  Pharisees,  with  their  minds  unhampered 
by  social  and  political  ambitions,  followers  of  a  vo- 
cation which  kept  them  out  of  doors  and  reminded 
them  daily  of  their  dependence  on  the  bounty  of 
God, — these  children  of  nature,  and  others  like  them, 
were  the  men  whom  He  chose  for  His  disciples,  the 
listeners  who  had  ears  to  hear  Hi?  marvellous  gospel. 
253 


GALILEE   AND   THE    LAKE 

It  was  here,  on  these  pale,  green  waves,  that  He 
sat  in  a  little  boat,  near  the  shore,  and  spoke  to  the 
multitude  who  had  gathered  to  hear  Him. 

He  spoke  of  the  deep  and  tranquil  confidence 
that  man  may  learn  from  nature,  from  the  birds 
and  the  flowers. 

He  spoke  of  the  infinite  peace  of  the  heart  that 
knows  the  true  meaning  of  love,  which  is  giving  and 
blessing,  and  the  true  secret  of  courage,  which  is 
loyalty  to  the  truth. 

He  spoke  of  the  God  whom  we  can  trust  as  a 
child  trusts  its  father,  and  of  the  Heaven  which 
waits  for  all  who  do  good  to  their  fellowmen. 

He  spoke  of  the  wisdom  whose  fruit  is  not  pride 
but  humility,  of  the  honour  whose  crown  is  not 
authority  but  service,  of  the  purity  which  is  not 
outward  but  inward,  and  of  the  joy  which  lasts  for- 
ever. 

He  spoke  of  forgiveness  for  the  guilty,  of  com- 
passion for  the  weak,  of  hope  for  the  desperate. 

He  told  these  poor  and  lowly  folk  that  their  souls 
were  unspeakably  precious,  and  that  He  had  come  to 
save  them  and  make  them  inheritors  of  an  eternal 
254 


kingdom.  He  told  them  that  He  had  brought  this 
message  from  God,  their  Father  and  His  Father. 

He  spoke  with  the  simplicity  of  one  who  knows, 
with  the  assurance  of  one  who  has  seen,  with  the  cer- 
tainty and  clearness  of  one  for  whom  doubt  does  not 
exist. 

He  offered  Himself,  in  His  stainless  purity,  in  His 
supreme  love,  as  the  proof  and  evidence  of  His  gos- 
pel, the  bread  of  Heaven,  the  water  of  life,  the 
Saviour  of  sinners,  the  light  of  the  world.  "Come 
unto  Me,"  He  said,  "and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

This  was  the  heavenly  music  that  came  into  the 
world  by  the  Lake  of  Galilee.  And  its  voice  has 
spread  through  the  centuries,  comforting  the  sor- 
rowful, restoring  the  penitent,  cheering  the  despond- 
ent, and  telling  all  who  will  believe  it,  that  our 
human  life  is  worth  living,  because  it  gives  each  one 
of  us  the  opportunity  to  share  in  the  Love  which  is 
sovereign  and  immortal. 


255 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  GOOD  TEACHER 

The  Lord  is  my  teacher: 

I  shall  not  lose  the  way  to  wisdom. 

He  leadeth  me  in  the  lowly  path  of  learning, 
He  prepareth  a  lesson  for  me  every  day; 
He  findeth  the  clear  fountains  of  instruction, 
Little  by  little  he  showeth  me  the  beauty  of  the  truth. 

The  world  is  a  great  book  that  he  hath  written, 
He  turneth  the  leaves  for  me  slowly; 
They  are  all  inscribed  with  images  and  letters, 
His  face  poureth  light  on  the  pictures  and  the  wordf 

Then  am  I  glad  when  I  perceive  his  meaning, 
He  taketh  me  by  the  hand  to  the  hill-top  of  vision; 
In  the  valley  also  he  walketh  beside  me, 
And  in  the  dark  places  he  whispereth  to  my  heart. 

Yea,  though  my  lesson  be  hard  it  is  not  hopeless, 
For  the  Lord  is  very  patient  with  his  slow  scholar; 
He  will  wait  awhile  for  my  weakness, 
He  will  help  me  to  read  the  truth  through  tears. 
256 


Surely  thou  wilt  enlighten  me  daily  by  joy  and  by 

sorrow: 

And  lead  me  at  last,  0  Lord,  to  the  perfect  knowledge 
of  thee. 


257 


XI 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 


THE   HILL-COUNTRY    OF    NAPHTALI 


was  the  northernmost  of  the  tribes  of 
Israel,  a  bold  and  free  highland  clan,  inhabiting  a 
country  of  rugged  hills  and  steep  mountainsides, 
with  fertile  vales  and  little  plains  between. 

"Naphtali  is  a  hind  let  loose,"  said  the  old  song  of 
the  Sons  of  Jacob  (Genesis  xlix:  21);  and  as  we  ride 
up  from  the  Lake  of  Galilee  on  our  way  northward, 
we  feel  the  meaning  of  the  poet's  words.  A  people 
dwelling  among  these  rock-strewn  heights,  building 
their  fortress-towns  on  sharp  pinnacles,  and  climb- 
ing these  steep  paths  to  the  open  fields  of  tillage  or  of 
war,  would  be  like  wild  deer  in  their  spirit  of  liberty, 
and  they  would  need  to  be  as  nimble  and  sure-footed. 

Our  good  little  horses  are  shod  with  round  plates 
of  iron,  and  they  clatter  noisily  among  the  loose 
stones  and  slip  on  the  rocky  ledges,  as  we  strike  over 
the  hills  from  Capernaum,  without  a  path,  to  join 
the  main  trail  at  Khan  Yubb  Yusuf  . 
261 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

We  are  skirting  fields  of  waving  wheat  and  barley, 
but  there  are  no  houses  to  be  seen.  Far  and  wide 
the  sea  of  verdure  rolls  around  us,  broken  only  by 
ridges  of  grayish  rock  and  scarped  cliffs  of  reddish 
basalt.  We  wade  saddle-deep  in  herbage;  broad- 
leaved  fennel  and  trembling  reeds;  wild  asparagus 
and  artichokes;  a  hundred  kinds  of  flowering  weeds; 
acres  of  last  year's  thistles,  standing  blanched  and 
ghostlike  in  the  summer  sunshine. 

The  phantom  city  of  Safed  gleams  white  from 
its  far-away  hilltop, — the  latest  and  perhaps  the 
last  of  the  famous  seats  of  rabbinical  learning.  It  is 
one  of  the  sacred  places  of  modern  Judaism.  No 
Hebrew  pilgrim  fails  to  visit  it.  Here,  they  say,  the 
Messiah  will  one  day  reveal  himself,  and  after  estab- 
lishing His  kingdom,  will  set  out  to  conquer  the  world. 

But  it  is  not  to  the  city,  shining  like  a  flake  of 
mica  from  the  greenness  of  the  distant  mountain, 
that  our  looks  and  thoughts  are  turning.  It  is  back- 
ward to  the  lucent  sapphire  of  the  Lake  of  Galilee, 
upon  whose  shores  our  hearts  have  seen  the  secret 
vision,  heard  the  inward  message  of  the  Man  of 
Nazareth. 

262 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

Ridge  after  ridge  reveals  new  outlooks  toward 
its  tranquil  loveliness.  Turn  after  turn,  our  wind- 
ing way  leads  us  to  what  we  think  must  be  the 
parting  view.  Sleeping  in  still,  forsaken  beauty 
among  the  sheltering  hills,  and  open  to  the  cloudless 
sky  which  makes  its  water  like  a  little  heaven,  it 
seems  to  silently  return  our  farewell  looks  with 
pleading  for  remembrance.  Now,  after  one  more 
round  among  the  inclosing  ridges,  another  vista 
opens,  the  widest  and  the  most  serene  of  all. 

Farewell,  dear  Lake  of  Jesus!  Our  eyes  may 
never  rest  on  thee  again;  but  surely  they  will  not 
forget  thee.  For  now,  as  often  we  come  to  some  fair 
water  in  the  Western  mountains,  or  unfold  the  tent 
by  some  lone  lakeside  in  the  forests  of  the  North,  the 
lapping  of  thy  waves  will  murmur  through  our 
thoughts;  thy  peaceful  brightness  will  arise  before 
us;  we  shall  see  the  rose-flush  of  thy  oleanders,  and 
the  waving  of  thy  reeds;  the  sweet,  faint  smell  of 
thy  gold-flowered  acacias  will  return  to  us  from 
purple  orchids  and  white  lilies.  Let  the  blessing 
that  is  thine  go  with  us  everywhere  in  God's  great 
out-of-doors,  and  our  hearts  never  lose  the  comrade- 
263 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

ship  of  Him  who  made  thee  holiest  among  all  the 
waters  of  the  world! 


The  Khan  of  Joseph's  Pit  is  a  ruin;  a  huge  and 
broken  building  deserted  by  the  caravans  which 
used  to  throng  this  highway  from  Damascus  to  the 
cities  of  the  lake,  and  to  the  ports  of  Acre  and 
Joppa,  and  to  the  metropolis  of  Egypt.  It  is  hard 
to  realize  that  this  wild  moorland  path  by  which  we 
are  travelling  was  once  a  busy  road,  filled  with  cam- 
els, horses,  chariots,  foot-passengers,  clanking  com- 
panies of  soldiers;  that  these  crumbling,  cavernous 
walls,  overgrown  with  thorny  capers  and  wild  mar- 
joram and  mandragora,  were  once  crowded  every 
night  with  a  motley  mob  of  travellers  and  merchants ; 
that  this  pool  of  muddy  water,  gloomily  reflecting 
the  ruins,  was  once  surrounded  by  flocks  and  herds 
and  beasts  of  burden;  that  only  a  few  hours  to  the 
southward  there  was  once  a  ring  of  splendid,  thriv- 
ing, bustling  towns  around  the  shores  of  Galilee, 
out  of  which  and  into  which  the  multitudes  were 
forever  journeying.  Now  they  are  all  gone  from 
the  road,  and  the  vast  wayside  caravanserai  is 
264 


THE    SPRINGS    OP    JORDAN 

sleeping  into  decay — a  dormitory  for  bats  and  ser- 
pents. 

What  is  it  that  makes  the  wreck  of  an  inn  more 
lonely  and  forbidding  than  any  other  ruin  ? 

A  few  miles  more  of  riding  along  the  flanks  of  the 
mountains  bring  us  to  a  place  where  we  turn  a 
corner  suddenly,  and  come  upon  the  full  view  of  the 
upper  basin  of  the  Jordan;  a  vast  oval  green  cup, 
with  the  little  Lake  of  Huleh  lying  in  it  like  a  blue 
jewel,  and  the  giant  bulk  of  Mount  Hermon  towering 
beyond  it,  crowned  and  cloaked  with  silver  snows. 

Up  the  steep  and  slippery  village  street  of  Rosh 
Pinnah,  a  modern  Jewish  colony  founded  by  the 
Rothschilds  in  1882,  we  scramble  wearily  to  our 
camping-ground  for  the  night.  Above  us  on  a  hill- 
top is  the  old  Arab  village  of  Jauneh,  brown,  pict- 
uresque, and  filthy.  Around  us  are  the  colonists'  new 
houses,  with  their  red-tiled  roofs  and  white  walls. 
Two  straight  streets  running  in  parallel  lines  up  the 
hillside  are  roughly  paved  with  cobble-stones  and 
lined  with  trees;  mulberries,  white-flowered  acacias, 
eucalyptus,  feathery  pepper-trees,  and  rose-bushes. 
Water  runs  down  through  pipes  from  a  copious 
265 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

spring  on  the  mountain,  and  flows  abundantly  into 
every  house,  plashing  into  covered  reservoirs  and 
open  stone  basins  for  watering  the  cattle.  Below  us 
the  long  avenues  of  eucalyptus,  the  broad  vineyards 
filled  with  low,  bushy  vines,  the  immense  orchards  of 
pale-green  almond-trees,  the  smiling  wheat-fields, 
slope  to  the  lake  and  encircle  its  lower  end. 

The  children  who  come  to  visit  our  camp  on  the 
terrace  wear  shoes  and  stockings,  carry  school-books 
in  their  bags,  and  bring  us  offerings  of  little  bunches 
of  sweet-smelling  garden  roses  and  pendulous 
locust-blooms.  We  are  a  thousand  years  away  from 
the  Khan  of  Joseph's  Pit;  but  we  can  still  see  the  old 
mud  village  on  the  height  against  the  sunset,  and 
the  camp-fires  gleaming  in  front  of  the  black  Be- 
douin tents  far  below,  along  the  edge  of  the  marshes. 
We  are  perched  between  the  old  and  the  new,  be- 
tween the  nomad  and  the  civilized  man,  and  the 
unchanging  white  head  of  Hermon  looks  down  upon 
us  all. 

In  the  morning,  on  the  way  down,  I  stop  at  the 
door  of  a  house  and  fall  into  talk  with  an  intelligent, 
schoolmasterish  sort  of  man,  a  Roumanian,  who 
266 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

speaks  a  little  weird  German.  Is  the  colony  pros- 
pering? Yes,  but  not  so  fast  that  it  makes  them 
giddy.  What  are  they  raising  ?  Wheat  and  barley, 
a  few  vegetables,  a  great  deal  of  almonds  and  grapes. 
Good  harvests  ?  Some  years  good,  some  years  bad ; 
the  Arabs  bad  every  year,  terrible  thieves;  but  the 
crops  are  plentiful  most  of  the  time.  Are  the  colo- 
nists happy,  contented  ?  A  thin  smile  wrinkles 
around  the  man's  lips  as  he  answers  with  the  state- 
ment of  a  world-wide  truth,  "Ach,  Herr,  der  Acker- 
bauer  ist  nie  zufrieden."  ("Ah,  Sir,  the  farmer  is 
never  contented.") 

II 
THE   WATERS  OF   MEROM 

ALL  day  we  ride  along  the  hills  skirting  the  marshy 
plain  of  Huleh.  Here  the  springs  and  parent 
streams  of  Jordan  are  gathered,  behind  the  moun- 
tains of  Naphtali  and  at  the  foot  of  Hermon,  as  in 
a  great  green  basin  about  the  level  of  the  ocean,  for 
the  long,  swift  rush  down  the  sunken  trench  which 
leads  to  the  deep,  sterile  bitterness  of  the  Dead  Sea. 
267 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

Was  there  ever  a  river  that  began  so  fair  and  ended 
in  such  waste  and  desolation  ? 

Here  in  this  broad,  level,  well-watered  valley, 
along  the  borders  of  these  vast  beds  of  papyrus  and 
rushes  intersected  by  winding,  hidden  streams, 
Joshua  and  his  fierce  clans  of  fighting  men  met  the 
Kings  of  the  north  with  their  horses  and  chariots, 
"at  the  waters  of  Merom,"  in  the  last  great  battle 
for  the  possession  of  the  Promised  Land.  It  was  a 
furious  conflict,  the  hordes  of  footmen  against  the 
squadrons  of  horsemen;  but  the  shrewd  command 
that  came  from  Joshua  decided  it:  "Hough  their 
horses  and  burn  their  chariots  with  fire."  The  Ca- 
naanites  and  the  Amorites  and  the  Hittites  and  the 
Hivites  were  swept  from  the  field,  driven  over  the 
western  mountains,  and  the  Israelites  held  the  Jor- 
dan from  Jericho  to  Hermon.  (Joshua  xi:l-15.) 

The  springs  that  burst  from  the  hills  to  the  left  of 
our  path  and  run  down  to  the  sluggish  channels  of 
the  marsh  on  our  right  are  abundant  and  beautiful. 

Here  is  'Ain  Mellaha,  a  crystal  pool  a  hundred 
yards  wide,  with  wild  mint  and  watercress  growing 
around  it,  white  and  yellow  lilies  floating  on  its 
268 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

surface,  and  great  fish  showing  themselves  in  the 
transparent  open  spaces  among  the  weeds,  where 
the  water  bubbles  up  from  the  bottom  through 
dancing  hillocks  of  clean,  white  sand  and  shining 
pebbles. 

Here  is  'Ain  el-Belata,  a  copious  stream  breaking 
forth  from  the  rocks  beneath  a  spreading  terebinth- 
tree,  and  rippling  down  with  merry  rapids  toward 
the  jungle  of  rustling  reeds  and  plumed  papyrus. 

While  luncheon  is  preparing  in  the  shade  of  the 
terebinth,  I  wade  into  the  brook  and  cast  my  fly 
along  the  ripples.  A  couple  of  ragged,  laughing, 
bare-legged  Bedouin  boys  follow  close  behind  me, 
watching  the  new  sport  with  wonder.  The  fish  are 
here,  as  lively  and  gamesome  as  brook  trout,  plump, 
golden-sided  fellows  ten  or  twelve  inches  long.  The 
feathered  hooks  tempt  them,  and  they  rise  freely  to 
the  lure.  My  tattered  pages  are  greatly  excited,  and 
make  impromptu  pouches  hi  the  breast  of  their 
robes,  stuffing  in  the  fish  until  they  look  quite  fat. 
The  catch  is  enough  for  a  good  supper  for  their  whole 
family,  and  a  dozen  more  for  a  delicious  fish-salad  at 
our  camp  that  night.  What  kind  of  fish  are  they  ? 
269 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

I  do  not  know:  doubtless  something  Scriptural  and 
Oriental.  But  they  taste  good ;  and  so  far  as  there 
is  any  record,  they  are  the  first  fish  ever  taken  with 
the  artificial  fly  in  the  sources  of  the  Jordan. 

The  plain  of  Huleh  is  full  of  life.  Flocks  of  water- 
fowl and  solemn  companies  of  storks  circle  over  the 
swamps.  The  wet  meadows  are  covered  with  herds 
of  black  buffaloes,  wallowing  in  the  ditches,  or  star- 
ing at  us  sullenly  under  their  drooping  horns.  Little 
bunches  of  horses,  and  brood  mares  followed  by  their 
long-legged,  awkward  foals,  gallop  beside  our  caval- 
cade, whinnying  and  kicking  up  their  heels  in  the 
joy  of  freedom.  Flocks  of  black  goats  clamber  up 
the  rocky  hillsides,  following  the  goatherd  who  plays 
upon  his  rustic  pipe  quavering  and  fantastic  music, 
softened  by  distance  into  a  wild  sweetness.  Small 
black  cattle  with  white  faces  march  in  long  files 
across  the  pastures,  or  wander  through  the  thickets  of 
bulrushes  and  papyrus  and  giant  fennel,  appearing 
and  disappearing  as  the  screen  of  broad  leaves  and 
trembling  plumes  close  behind  them. 

A  few  groups  of  huts   made  out  of  wattled  reeds 
stand  beside  the  sluggish  watercourses,  just  as  they 
270 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

did  when  Macgregor  in  his  Rob  Roy  canoe  at- 
tempted to  explore  this  impenetrable  morass  forty 
years  ago.  Along  the  higher  ground  are  lines  of  black 
Bedouin  tents,  arranged  in  transitory  villages. 

These  flitting  habitations  of  the  nomads,  who 
come  down  from  the  hills  and  lofty  deserts  to  fatten 
their  flocks  and  herds  among  unfailing  pasturage, 
are  all  of  one  pattern.  The  low,  flat  roof  of  black 
goats'  hair  is  lifted  by  the  sticks  which  support  it, 
into  half  a  dozen  little  peaks,  perhaps  five  or  six  feet 
from  the  ground.  Between  these  peaks  the  cloth  sags 
down,  and  is  made  fast  along  the  edges  by  intricate 
and  confusing  guy-ropes.  The  tent  is  shallow,  not 
more  than  six  feet  deep,  and  from  twelve  to  thirty 
feet  long,  according  to  the  wealth  of  the  owner  and 
the  size  of  his  family, — two  things  which  usually  cor- 
respond. The  sides  and  the  partitions  are  some- 
times made  of  woven  reeds,  like  coarse  matting. 
Within  there  is  an  apartment  (if  you  can  call  it  so) 
for  the  family,  a  pen  for  the  chickens,  and  room  for 
dogs,  cats,  calves  and  other  creatures  to  find  shelter. 
The  fireplace  of  flat  stones  is  in  the  centre,  and  the 
smoke  oozes  out  through  the  roof  and  sides. 
271 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

The  Bedouin  men,  in  flowing  burnous  and  keffi- 
yeh,  with  the  'agal  of  dark  twisted  camel's  hair  like 
a  crown  upon  their  heads,  are  almost  all  handsome : 
clean-cut,  haughty  faces,  bold  in  youth  and  digni- 
fied in  old  age.  The  women  look  weatherbeaten 
and  withered  beside  them.  Even  when  you  see  a 
fine  face  in  the  dark  blue  mantle  or  under  the  white 
head-dress,  it  is  almost  always  disfigured  by  purplish 
tattooing  around  the  lips  and  chin.  Some  of  the 
younger  girls  are  beautiful,  and  most  of  the  children 
are  entrancing. 

They  play  games  in  a  ring,  with  songs  and  clap- 
ping hands;  the  boys  charge  up  and  down  among 
the  tents  with  wild  shouts,  driving  a  round  bone  or  a 
donkey's  hoof  with  their  shinny-sticks;  the  girls 
chase  one  another  and  hide  among  the  bushes  in 
some  primeval  form  of  "tag"  or  "hide-and-seek." 

A  merry  little  mob  pursues  us  as  we  ride  through 
each  encampment,  with  outstretched  hands  and 
half -jesting,  half -plaintive  cries  of  "Bakhshish! 
bakhshish!"  They  do  not  really  expect  anything. 
It  is  only  a  part  of  the  game.  And  when  the  Lady 
holds  out  her  open  hand  to  them  and  smiles  as  she 
272 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

repeats,   "Bakhshish!  bakhshish!"  they  take  the 
joke  quickly,  and  run  away,  laughing,  to  their  sports. 

At  one  village,  in  the  dusk,  there  is  an  open-air 
wedding:  a  row  of  men  dancing;  a  ring  of  women 
and  girls  looking  on;  musicians  playing  the  shep- 
herd's pipe  and  the  drum;  maidens  running  beside 
us  to  beg  a  present  for  the  invisible  bride:  a  rude 
charcoal  sketch  of  human  society,  primitive,  irre- 
pressible, confident,  encamped  for  a  moment  on  the 
shadowy  border  of  the  fecund  and  unconquerable 
marsh. 

Thus  we  traverse  the  strange  country  of  Bedouinia, 
travelling  all  day  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Sheikh 
of  Mountains,  and  sleep  at  night  on  the  edge  of  a 
little  village  whose  name  we  shall  never  know. 
A  dozen  times  we  ask  George  for  the  real  name  of 
that  place,  and  a  dozen  times  he  repeats  it  for  us 
with  painstaking  courtesy;  it  sounds  like  a  com 
promise  between  a  cough  and  a  sneeze. 


27S 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

III 
WHERE   JORDAN  RISES 

THE  Jordan  is  assembled  in  the  northern  end  of 
the  basin  of  Huleh  under  a  mysterious  curtain  of  tall, 
tangled  water-plants.  Into  that  ancient  and  impene- 
trable place  of  hiding  and  blending  enter  many  little 
springs  and  brooks,  but  the  main  sources  of  the  river 
are  three. 

The  first  and  the  longest  is  the  Hasbani,  a  strong, 
foaming  stream  that  comes  down  with  a  roar  from 
the  western  slope  of  Hermon.  We  cross  it  by  the 
double  arch  of  a  dilapidated  Saracen  bridge,  looking 
down  upon  thickets  of  oleander,  willow,  tamarisk 
and  woodbine. 

The  second  and  largest  source  springs  from  the 
rounded  hill  of  Tel  el-Kadi,  the  supposed  site  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Dan,  the  northern  border  of  Israel. 
Here  the  wandering,  landless  Danites,  finding  a 
country  to  their  taste,  put  the  too  fortunate  inhabi- 
tants of  Leshem  to  the  sword  and  took  possession. 
And  here  King  Jereboam  set  up  one  of  his  idols  of 
the  golden  calf. 

274 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

There  is  no  vestige  of  the  city,  no  trace  of  the 
idolatrous  shrine,  on  the  huge  mound  which  rises 
thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  plain.  But  it  is  thickly 
covered  with  trees:  poplars  and  oaks  and  wild  figs 
and  acacias  and  wild  olives.  A  pair  of  enormous 
veterans,  a  valonia  oak  and  a  terebinth,  make  a 
broad  bower  of  shade  above  the  tomb  of  an  un- 
known Mohammedan  saint,  and  there  we  eat  our 
midday  meal,  with  the  murmur  of  running  waters 
all  around  us,  a  clear  rivulet  singing  at  our  feet, 
and  the  chant  of  innumerable  birds  filling  the  vault 
of  foliage  above  our  heads. 

After  lunch,  instead  of  sleeping,  two  of  us  wander 
into  the  dense  grove  that  spreads  over  the  mound. 
Tiny  streams  of  water  trickle  through  it:  black- 
berry-vines and  wild  grapes  are  twisted  in  the  under- 
growth; ferns  and  flowery  nettles  and  mint  grow 
waist-high.  The  main  spring  is  at  the  western  base 
of  the  mound.  The  water  comes  bubbling  and 
whirling  out  from  under  a  screen  of  wild  figs  and 
vines,  forming  a  pool  of  palest,  clearest  blue,  a  hun- 
dred feet  in  diameter.  Out  of  this  pool  the  new-born 
river  rushes,  foaming  and  shouting  down  the  hill- 
275 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

side,  through  lines  of  flowering  styrax  and  hawthorn 
and  willows  trembling  over  its  wild  joy. 

The  third  and  most  impressive  of  the  sources  of 
Jordan  is  at  Baniyas,  on  one  of  the  foothills  of  Her- 
mon.  Our  path  thither  leads  us  up  from  Dan, 
through  high  green  meadows,  shaded  by  oak-trees, 
sprinkled  with  innumerable  blossoming  shrubs  and 
bushes,  and  looking  down  upon  the  lower  fields  blue 
with  lupins  and  vetches,  or  golden  with  yellow 
chrysanthemums  beneath  which  the  red  glow  of  the 
clover  is  dimly  burning  like  a  secret  fire. 

Presently  we  come,  by  way  of  a  broad,  natural 
terrace  where  the  white  encampment  of  the  Moslem 
dead  lies  gleaming  beneath  the  shade  of  mighty 
oaks  and  terebinths,  and  past  the  friendly  olive-grove 
where  our  own  tents  are  standing,  to  a  deep  ravine 
filled  to  the  brim  with  luxuriant  verdure  of  trees  and 
vines  and  ferns.  Into  this  green  cleft  a  little  river, 
dancing  and  singing,  suddenly  plunges  and  disap- 
pears, and  from  beneath  the  veil  of  moist  and 
trembling  leaves  we  hear  the  sound  of  its  wild  joy, 
a  fracas  of  leaping,  laughing  waters. 

An  old  Roman  bridge  spans  the  stream  on  the 
276 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

brink  of  its  downward  leap.  Crossing  over,  we  ride 
through  the  ruined  gateway  of  the  town  of  Baniyas, 
turn  to  right  and  left  among  its  dirty,  narrow 
streets,  pass  into  a  leafy  lane,  and  come  out  in 
front  of  a  cliff  of  ruddy  limestone,  with  niches  and 
shrines  carved  on  its  face,  and  a  huge,  dark  cavern 
gaping  in  the  centre. 

A  tumbled  mass  of  broken  rocks  lies  below  the 
mouth  of  the  cave.  From  this  slope  of  debris,  sixty 
or  seventy  feet  long,  a  line  of  springs  gush  forth  in 
singing  foam.  Under  the  shadow  of  trembling  pop- 
lars and  broad-boughed  sycamores,  amid  the  lush 
greenery  of  wild  figs  and  grapes,  bracken  and  bri- 
ony  and  morning-glory,  drooping  maidenhair  and 
flower-laden  styrax,  the  hundred  rills  swiftly  run 
together  and  flow  away  with  one  impulse,  a  full- 
grown  little  river. 

There  is  an  immemorial  charm  about  the  place 
Mysteries  of  grove  and  fountain,  of  cave  and  hilltop, 
bewitch  it  with  the  magic  of  Nature's  life,  ever 
springing  and  passing,  flowering  and  fading,  basking 
in  the  open  sunlight  and  hiding  in  the  secret  places 
of  the  earth.  It  is  such  a  place  as  Claude  Lorraine 
277 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

might  have  imagined  and  painted  as  the  scene  of 
one  of  his  mythical  visions  of  Arcadia;  such  a  place 
as  antique  fancy  might  have  chosen  and  decked  with 
altars  for  the  worship  of  unseen  dryads  and  nymphs, 
oreads  and  naiads.  And  so,  indeed,  it  was  chosen, 
and  so  it  was  decked. 

Here,  in  all  probability,  was  Baal-Gad,  where  the 
Canaanites  paid  their  reverence  to  the  waters  that 
spring  from  underground.  Here,  certainly,  was 
Paneas  of  the  Greeks,  where  the  rites  of  Pan  and  all 
the  nymphs  were  celebrated.  Here  Herod  the 
Great  built  a  marble  temple  to  Augustus  the  Toler- 
ant, on  this  terrace  of  rock  above  the  cave.  Here,  no 
doubt,  the  statue  of  the  Emperor  looked  down  upon 
a  strange  confusion  of  revelries  and  wild  offerings  in 
honour  of  the  unknown  powers  of  Nature. 

All  these  things  have  withered,  crumbled,  van- 
ished. There  are  no  more  statues,  altars,  priests, 
revels  and  sacrifices  at  Baniyas — only  the  fragment 
of  an  inscription  around  one  of  the  votive  niches 
carved  on  the  cliff,  which  records  the  fact  that  the 
niche  was  made  by  a  certain  person  who  at  that 
time  was  "Priest  of  Pan."  But  the  name  of  this 
278 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

person  who  wished  to  be  remembered  is  precisely  the 
part  of  the  carving  which  is  illegible. 

Ironical  inscription !  Still  the  fountains  gush  from 
the  rocks,  the  poplars  tremble  in  the  breeze,  the 
sweet  incense  rises  from  the  orange-flowered  styrax, 
the  birds  chant  the  joy  of  living,  the  sunlight  and  the 
moonlight  fall  upon  the  sparkling  waters,  and  the 
liquid  starlight  drips  through  the  glistening  leaves. 
But  the  Priest  of  Pan  is  forgotten,  and  all  that  old 
interpretation  and  adoration  of  Nature,  sensuous, 
passionate,  full  of  mingled  cruelty  and  ecstasy, 
has  melted  like  a  mist  from  her  face,  and  left  her 
serene  and  pure  and  lovely  as  ever. 

Here  at  Paneas,  after  the  city  had  been  rebuilt  by 
Philip  the  Tetrarch  and  renamed  after  him  and  his 
Imperial  master,  there  came  one  day  a  Peasant  of 
Galilee  who  taught  His  disciples  to  draw  near  to 
Nature,  not  with  fierce  revelry  and  superstitious  awe, 
but  with  tranquil  confidence  and  calm  joy.  The 
goatfoot  god,  the  god  of  panic,  the  great  god  Pan, 
reigns  no  more  beside  the  upper  springs  of  Jordan. 
The  name  that  we  remember  here,  the  name  that 
makes  the  message  of  flowing  stream  and  sheltering 
279 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

nee  and  singing  bird  more  clear  and  cool  and  sweet 
to  our  hearts,  is  the  name  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 


IV 

C^SAREA   PHILIPPI 

YES,  this  little  Mohammedan  town  of  Baniyas, 
with  its  twoscore  wretched  houses  built  of  stones 
from  the  ancient  ruins  and  huddled  within  the 
broken  walls  of  the  citadel,  is  the  ancient  site  of 
Csesarea  Philippi.  In  the  happy  days  that  we  spend 
here,  rejoicing  in  the  most  beautiful  of  all  our  camps 
in  the  Holy  Land,  and  yielding  ourselves  to  the  full 
charm  of  the  out-of-doors  more  perfectly  expressed 
than  we  had  ever  thought  to  find  it  in  Palestine, — in 
this  little  paradise  of  friendly  trees  and  fragrant 
flowers, 

"  at  snowy  Hermon's  foot, 
Amid  the  music  of  his  waterfalls," — 

the  thought  of  Jesus  is  like  the  presence  of  a  com- 
rade, while  the  memories  of  human  grandeur  and 
transience,  of  man's  long  toil,  unceasing  conflict, 

280 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

vain  pride  and  futile  despair,  visit  us  only  as  flick- 
ering ghosts. 

We  climb  to  the  top  of  the  peaked  hill,  a  thousand 
feet  above  the  town,  and  explore  the  great  Crusaders' 
Castle  of  Subeibeh,  a  ruin  vaster  in  extent  and  nobler 
in  situation  than  the  famous  Schloss  of  Heidelberg. 
It  not  only  crowns  but  completely  covers  the  sum- 
mit of  the  steep  ridge  with  the  huge  drafted  stones  of 
its  foundations.  The  immense  round  towers,  the 
double-vaulted  gateways,  are  still  standing.  Long 
flights  of  steps  lead  down  to  subterranean  reservoirs 
of  water.  Spacious  courtyards,  where  the  knights 
and  men-at-arms  once  exercised,  are  transformed 
into  vegetable  gardens,  and  the  passageways  between 
the  north  citadel  and  the  south  citadel  are  travelled 
by  flocks  of  lop-eared  goats. 

From  room  to  room  we  clamber  by  slopes  of 
crumbling  stone,  discovering  now  a  guard-chamber 
with  loopholes  for  the  archers,  and  now  an  arched 
chapel  with  the  plaster  intact  and  faint  touches  of 
colour  still  showing  upon  it.  Perched  on  the  high 
battlements  we  look  across  the  valley  of  Huleh  and 
281 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

the  springs  of  Jordan  to  Kal'at  Hunin  on  the  moun- 
tains of  Naphtali,  and  to  Kal'at  esh-Shakif  above  the 
gorge  of  the  River  Litani. 

From  these  three  great  fortresses,  in  the  time  of  the 
Crusaders,  flashed  and  answered  the  signal-fires  of  the 
chivalry  of  Europe  fighting  for  possession  of  Palestine, 
What  noble  companies  of  knights  and  ladies  inhab- 
ited these  castles,  what  rich  festivals  were  celebrated 
within  these  walls,  what  desperate  struggles  defended 
them,  until  at  last  the  swarthy  hordes  of  Saracens 
stormed  the  gates  and  poured  over  the  defences  and 
planted  the  standard  of  the  crescent  on  the  towers 
and  lit  the  signal-fires  of  Islam  from  citadel  to  citadel. 

All  the  fires  have  gone  out  now.  The  yellow  whin 
blazes  upon  the  hillsides.  The  wild  fig-tree  splits 
the  masonry.  The  scorpion  lodges  in  the  deserted 
chambers.  On  the  fallen  stone  of  the  Crusaders' 
gate,  where  the  Moslem  victor  has  carved  his  Arabic 
inscription,  a  green-gray  lizard  poises  motionless, 
like  a  bronze  figure  on  a  paper-weight. 

We  pass  through  the  southern  entrance  of  the 
village  of  Baniyas,  a  massive  square  portal,  rebuilt 

282 


Q 
to 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

by  some  Arab  ruler,  and  go  out  on  the  old  Roman 
bridge  which  spans  the  ravine.  The  aqueduct  car- 
ried by  the  bridge  is  still  full  of  flowing  water,  and  the 
drops  which  fall  from  it  in  a  fine  mist  make  a  little 
rainbow  as  the  afternoon  sun  shines  through  the 
archway  draped  with  maidenhair  fern.  On  the 
stone  pavement  of  the  bridge  we  trace  the  ruts  worn 
two  thousand  years  ago  by  the  chariots  of  the  men 
who  conquered  the  world.  The  chariots  have  all 
rolled  by.  On  the  broken  edge  of  the  tower  above 
the  gateway  sits  a  ragged  Bedouin  boy,  making  shrill, 
plaintive  music  with  his  pipe  of  reeds. 

We  repose  in  front  of  our  tents  among  the  olive- 
trees  at  the  close  of  the  day.  The  cool  sound  of 
running  streams  and  rustling  poplars  is  on  the 
moving  air,  and  the  orange-golden  sunset  enchants 
the  orchard  with  mystical  light.  All  the  swift  visions 
of  striving  Saracens  and  Crusaders,  of  conquering 
Greeks  and  Romans,  fade  away  from  us,  and  we  see 
the  figure  of  the  Man  of  Nazareth  with  His  little 
oompany  of  friends  and  disciples  coming  up  from 
Galilee. 

283 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

It  was  here  that  Jesus  retreated  with  His  few 
faithful  followers  from  the  opposition  of  the  Scribes 
and  Pharisees.  This  was  the  northernmost  spot  of 
earth  ever  trodden  by  His  feet,  the  longest  distance 
from  Jerusalem  that  He  ever  travelled.  Here  in 
this  exquisite  garden  of  Nature,  in  a  region  of  the 
Gentiles,  within  sight  of  the  shrines  devoted  to  those 
Greek  and  Roman  rites  which  were  so  luxurious 
and  so  tolerant,  four  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
significant  events  of  His  life  and  ministry  took  place. 

He  asked  His  disciples  plainly  to  tell  their  secret 
thought  of  Him — whom  they  believed  their  Mas- 
ter to  be.  And  when  Peter  answered  simply: 
"Thou  art  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  the  living 
God,"  Jesus  blessed  him  for  the  answer,  and 
declared  that  He  would  build  His  church  upon 
that  rock. 

Then  He  took  Peter  and  James  and  John  with 
Him  and  climbed  one  of  the  high  and  lonely  slopes 
of  Hermon.  There  He  was  transfigured  before  them, 
His  face  shining  like  the  sun  and  His  garments  glis- 
tening like  the  snow  on  the  mountain-peaks.  But 

when  they  begged  to  stay  there  with  Him,  He  led 
284 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

them  down  to  the  valley  again,  among  the  sinning 
and  suffering  children  of  men. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mount  of  transfiguration  He 
healed  the  demoniac  boy  whom  his  father  had 
brought  to  the  other  disciples,  but  for  whom  they 
had  been  unable  to  do  anything;  and  He  taught 
them  that  the  power  to  help  men  comes  from  faith 
and  prayer. 

And  then,  at  last,  He  turned  His  steps  from  this 
safe  and  lovely  refuge,  (where  He  might  surely  have 
lived  in  peace,  or  from  which  He  might  have  gone 
out  unmolested  into  the  wide  Gentile  world),  back- 
ward to  His  own  country,  His  own  people,  the  great, 
turbulent,  hard-hearted  Jewish  city,  and  the  fate 
which  was  not  to  be  evaded  by  One  who  loved  sinners 
and  came  to  save  them.  He  went  down  into  Galilee, 
down  through  Samaria  and  Perea,  down  to  Jerusa- 
lem, down  to  Gethsemane  and  to  Golgotha, — fearless, 
calm, — sustained  and  nourished  by  that  secret  food 
which  satisfied  His  heart  in  doing  the  will  of  God. 

It  was  in  the  quest  of  this  Jesus,  in  the  hope  of 
somehow  drawing  nearer  to  Him,  that  we  made  our 
285 


THE    SPRINGS   OF    JORDAN 

pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land.  And  now,  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening  at  Caesarea  Philippi,  we  ask 
ourselves  whether  our  desire  has  been  granted,  our 
hope  fulfilled  ? 

Yes,  more  richly,  more  wonderfully  than  we  dared 
to  dream.  For  we  have  found  a  new  vision  of  Christ, 
simpler,  clearer,  more  satisfying,  in  the  freedom  and 
reality  of  God's  out-of-doors. 

Not  through  the  mists  and  shadows  of  an  infinite 
regret,  the  sadness  of  sweet,  faded  dreams  and 
hopes  that  must  be  resigned,  as  Pierre  Loti  saw  the 
phantom  of  a  Christ  whose  irrevocable  disappearance 
has  left  the  world  darker  than  ever! 

Not  amid  strange  portents  and  mysterious  rites, 
crowned  with  I  know  not  what  aureole  of  traditionary 
splendours,  founder  of  elaborate  ceremonies  and 
centre  of  lamplit  shrines,  as  Matilde  Serao  saw  the 
image  of  that  Christ  whom  the  legends  of  men  have 
honoured  and  obscured! 

The  Jesus  whom  we  have  found  is  the  Child  of 

Nazareth  playing  among  the  flowers;    the  Man  of 

Galilee  walking  beside  the  lake,  healing  the  sick, 

comforting  the  sorrowful,  cheering  the  lonely  and 

286 


THE    SPRINGS    OF    JORDAN 

despondent;  the  well-beloved  Son  of  God  transfigured 
in  the  sunset  glow  of  snowy  Hermon,  weeping  by  the 
sepulchre  in  Bethany,  agonizing  in  the  moonlit  gar- 
den of  Gethsemane,  giving  His  life  for  those  who 
did  not  understand  Him,  though  they  loved  Him, 
and  for  those  who  did  not  love  Him  because  they  did 
not  understand  Him,  and  rising  at  last  triumphant 
over  death, — such  a  Saviour  as  all  men  need  and 
as  no  man  could  ever  have  imagined  if  He  had  not 
been  real. 

His  message  has  not  died  away,  nor  will  it  ever  die. 
For  confidence  and  calm  joy  He  tells  us  to  turn  to 
Nature.  For  love  and  sacrifice  He  bids  us  live  close 
to  our  fellowmen.  For  comfort  and  immortal  hope 
He  asks  us  to  believe  in  Him  and  in  our  Father,  God. 

That  is  all. 

But  the  bringing  of  that  heavenly  message  made 
the  country  to  which  it  came  the  Holy  Land.  And 
the  believing  of  that  message,  to-day,  will  lead  any 
child  of  man  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  And 
the  keeping  of  that  faith,  the  following  of  that  Life, 
will  transfigure  any  country  beneath  the  blue  sky 
into  a  holy  land. 

287 


THE  PSALM  OF  A  SOJOURNER 

Thou  hast  taken  me  into  the  tent  of  the  world,  O  God 
Beneath  thy  blue  canopy  I  have  found  shelter: 
Therefore  thou  wilt  not  deny  me  the  right  of  a  guest. 

Naked  and  poor  I  arrived  at  the  door  before  sunset: 
Thou  hast  refreshed  me  with  beautiful  bowls  of  milk: 
As  a  great  chief  thou  hast  set  forth  food  in  abundance. 

I  have  loved  the  daily  delights  of  thy  dwelling: 
Thy  moon  and  thy  stars  have  lighted  me  to  my  bed: 
In  the  morning  I  have  found  joy  with  thy  servants. 

Surely  thou  wilt  not  send  me  away  in  the  darkness? 
There  the  enemy  Death  is  lying  in  wait  for  my  soul: 
Thou  art  the  host  of  my  life  and  I  claim  thy  pro- 
tection. 

Then  the  Lord  of  the  tent  of  the  world  made  answer: 
The  right  of  a  guest  endureth  but  for  an  appointed 

time: 
After  three  days  and  three  nights  cometh  the  day  of 

departure. 

288 


Yet  hearken  to  me  since  thou  fearest  the  foe  in  the 

dark: 
I  will  make  with  thee  a  new  covenant  of  everlasting 

hospitality : 
Behold  I  will  come  unto  thee  as  a  stranger  and  be  thy 

guest. 

Poor  and  needy  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  entertain 

me: 
Meek  and  lowly  will  I  come  that  thou  mayest  find  a 

friend: 
With  mercy  and  with  truth  will  I  come  to  give  thee 

comfort. 

Therefore  open  the  door  of  thy  heart  and  bid  me  wel- 
come: 

In  this  tent  of  the  world  I  will  be  thy  brother  of  the 
bread: 

And  when  thou  farest  forth  I  will  be  thy  companion 
forever. 

Then  my  soul  rested  in  the  word  of  the  Lord: 
And   I  saw   that   the    curtains  of  the   world   were 

shaken, 
But  I  looked  beyond  them  to  the  eternal  camp-fires 

of  my  friend. 


289 


XII 
THE  ROAD   TO   DAMASCUS 


THROUGH  THE  LAND  OF  THE  DRUSES 

I  OU  may  go  to  Damascus  now  by  rail,  if  you  like, 
and  have  a  choice  between  two  rival  routes,  one  under 
government  ownership,  the  other  built  and  man- 
aged by  a  corporation.  But  to  us  encamped  among 
the  silvery  olives  at  Baniyas,  beside  the  springs  of 
Jordan,  it  seemed  a  happy  circumstance  that  both 
railways  were  so  far  away  that  it  would  have  taken 
longer  to  reach  them  than  to  ride  our  horses  straight 
into  the  city.  We  were  delivered  from  the  modern 
folly  of  trying  to  save  time  by  travelling  in  a 
conveyance  more  speedy  than  picturesque,  and  left 
free  to  pursue  our  journey  in  a  leisurely,  indepen- 
dent fashion  and  by  the  road  that  would  give  us  most 
pleasure.  So  we  chose  the  longer  way,  the  northern 
path  around  Mount  Hermon,  through  the  country 
of  the  Druses,  instead  of  the  more  frequented  road 
to  the  east  by  Kafr  Hawar. 

How  delightful  is  the  morning  of  such  a  journey! 
293 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

The  fresh  face  of  the  world  bathed  in  sparkling 
dew;  the  greetings  from  tent  to  tent  as  we  four 
friends  make  our  rendezvous  from  the  far  countries 
of  sleep;  the  relish  of  breakfast  in  the  open  air;  the 
stir  of  the  camp  in  preparation  for  a  flitting;  canvas 
sinking  to  the  ground,  bales  and  boxes  heaped  to- 
gether, mule-bells  tinkling  through  the  grove,  horses 
refreshed  by  their  long  rest  whinnying  and  nipping 
at  each  other  in  play — all  these  are  charming  vari- 
ations and  accompaniments  to  the  old  tune  of 
"Boots  and  Saddles." 

The  immediate  effect  of  such  a  setting  out  for 
a  day's  ride  is  to  renew  in  the  heart  those  "vital 
feelings  of  delight"  which  make  one  simply  and 
inexplicably  glad  to  be  alive.  We  are  delivered 
from  those  morbid  questionings  and  exorbitant 
demands  by  which  we  are  so  often  possessed 
and  plagued  as  by  some  strange  inward  malady. 
We  feel  a  sense  of  health  and  harmony  diffused 
through  body  and  mind  as  we  ride  over  the  beautiful 
terrace  which  slopes  down  from  Baniyas  to  Tel-el 
Kadi. 

We  are  glad  of  the  green  valonia  oaks  that  spread 
294 


THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

their  shade  over  us,  and  of  the  blossoming  haw- 
thorns that  scatter  their  flower-snow  on  the  hill- 
side. We  are  glad  of  the  crested  larks  that  rise 
warbling  from  the  grass,  and  of  the  buntings  and 
chaffinches  that  make  their  small  merry  music  in 
every  thicket,  and  of  the  black  and  white  chats  that 
shift  their  burden  of  song  from  stone  to  stone 
beside  the  path,  and  of  the  cuckoo  that  tells  his  name 
to  us  from  far  away,  and  of  the  splendid  bee-eaters 
that  glitter  over  us  like  a  flock  of  winged  emeralds 
as  we  climb  the  rocky  hill  toward  the  north.  We 
are  glad  of  the  broom  in  golden  flower,  and  of  the 
pink  and  white  rock-roses,  and  of  the  spicy  fragrance 
of  mint  and  pennyroyal  that  our  horses  trample  out 
as  they  splash  through  the  spring  holes  and  little 
brooks.  We  are  glad  of  the  long,  wide  views  west- 
ward over  the  treeless  mountains  of  Naphtali  and 
the  southern  ridges  of  the  Lebanon,  and  of  the 
glimpses  of  the  ruined  castles  of  the  Crusaders,  Kal'at 
esh-Shakif  and  Hunin,  perched  like  dilapidated 
eagles  on  their  distant  crags.  Everything  seems  to 
us  like  a  personal  gift.  We  have  the  feeling  of  own- 
ership for  this  day  of  all  the  world's  beauty.  We 
295 


THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

could  not  explain  or  justify  it  to  any  sad  philoso- 
pher who  might  reproach  us  for  unreasoning 
felicity.  We  should  be  defenceless  before  his  argu- 
ments and  indifferent  to  his  scorn.  We  should 
simply  ride  on  into  the  morning,  reflecting  in  our 
hearts  something  of  the  brightness  of  the  birds' 
plumage,  the  cheerfulness  of  the  brooks'  song,  the 
undimmed  hyaline  of  the  sky,  and  so,  perhaps,  ful- 
filling the  Divine  Intention  of  Nature  as  well  as  if 
we  chose  to  becloud  our  mirror  with  melancholy 
thoughts. 

We  are  following  up  the  valley  of  the  longest  and 
highest,  but  not  the  largest,  of  the  sources  of  the 
Jordan :  the  little  River  Hasbanl,  a  strong  and  lovely 
stream,  which  rises  somewhere  in  the  northern  end 
of  the  Wadi  et-Teim,  and  flows  along  the  western 
base  of  Mount  Hermon,  receiving  the  tribute  of  tor- 
rents which  burst  out  in  foaming  springs  far  up  the 
ravines,  and  are  fed  underground  by  the  melting  ot 
the  perpetual  snow  of  the  great  mountain.  Now  and 
then  we  have  to  cross  one  of  these  torrents,  by  a  rude 
stone  bridge  or  by  wading.  All  along  the  way  Her- 
296 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

mon  looks  down  upon  us  from  his  throne,  nine 
thousand  feet  in  air.  His  head  is  wrapped  in  a 
turban  of  spotless  white,  like  a  Druse  chieftain,  and 
his  snowy  winter  cloak  still  hangs  down  over  his 
shoulders,  though  its  lower  edges  are  already 
fringed  and  its  seams  opened  by  the  warm  suns  of 
April. 

Presently  we  cross  a  bridge  to  the  west  bank  of 
the  Hasbanf,  and  ride  up  the  delightful  vale  where 
poplars  and  mulberries,  olives,  almonds,  vines  and 
figs,  grow  abundantly  along  the  course  of  the  river. 
There  are  low  weirs  across  the  stream  for  purposes 
of  irrigation,  and  a  larger  dam  supplies  a  mill  with 
power.  To  the  left  is  the  sharp  barren  ridge  of 
the  Jebel  ez-Zohr  separating  us  from  the  gorge  of  the 
River  Lltani.  Groups  of  labourers  are  at  work  on 
the  watercourses  among  the  groves  and  gardens. 
Vine-dressers  are  busy  in  the  vineyards.  Plough- 
men are  driving  their  shallow  furrows  through  the 
stony  fields  on  the  hillside.  The  little  river,  here  in 
its  friendliest  mood,  winds  merrily  among  the 
plantations  and  orchards  which  it  nourishes,  making 
a  cheerful  noise  over  beds  of  pebbles,  and  humming 
297 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

a  deeper  note  where  the  clear  green  water  plunges 
over  a  weir. 

We  have  now  been  in  the  saddle  five  hours;  the  sun 
is  ardent;  the  temperature  is  above  eighty-five 
degrees  in  the  shade,  and  along  the  bridle-path 
there  is  no  shade.  We  are  hungry,  thirsty,  and 
tired.  As  we  cross  the  river  again,  splashing 
through  a  ford,  our  horses  drink  eagerly  and  at- 
tempt to  lie  down  in  the  cool  water.  We  have  to 
use  strong  persuasion  not  only  with  them,  but  also 
with  our  own  spirits,  to  pass  by  the  green  grass  and 
the  sheltering  olive-trees  on  the  east  bank  and  push 
on  up  the  narrow,  rocky  defile  in  which  Hasbeiya 
is  hidden.  The  bridle-path  is  partly  paved  with 
rough  cobblestones,  hard  and  slippery,  which  make 
the  going  weariful.  The  heat  presses  on  us  like  a 
burden.  Things  that  would  have  delighted  us  in  the 
morning  now  give  us  no  pleasure.  We  have  made 
the  greedy  traveller's  mistake  of  measuring  our 
march  by  the  extent  of  our  endurance  instead  of  by 
the  limit  of  our  enjoyment. 

Hasbeiya  proves  to  be  a  rather  thriving  and  pict- 
uresque town  built  around  the  steep  sides  of  a  bay 
298 


THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

or  opening  in  the  valley.  The  amphitheatre  of  hills 
is  terraced  with  olive-orchards  and  vineyards. 
There  are  also  many  mulberry-trees  cultivated 
for  the  silkworms,  and  the  ever-present  figs  and 
almonds  are  not  wanting.  The  stone  houses  of  the 
town  rise,  on  winding  paths,  one  above  the  other, 
many  of  them  having  arched  porticoes,  red-tiled 
roofs,  and  green-latticed  windows.  It  is  a  place  of 
about  five  thousand  population,  now  more  than 
half  Christian,  but  formerly  one  of  the  strongholds 
and  capitals  of  the  mysterious  Druse  religion. 

Our  tents  are  pitched  at  the  western  end  of  the 
town,  on  a  low  terrace  where  olive-trees  are  growing. 
When  we  arrive  we  find  the  camp  surrounded  and 
filled  with  curious,  laughing  children.  The  boys 
are  a  little  troublesome  at  first,  but  a  word  from  an 
old  man  who  seems  to  be  in  charge  brings  them  to 
order,  and  at  least  fifty  of  them,  big  and  little,  squat 
in  a  semicircle  on  the  grass  below  the  terrace, 
watching  us  with  their  lustrous  brown  eyes. 

They  look  full  of  fun,  those  young  Druses  and 
Maromtes  and  Greeks  and  Mohammedans,  so  I 
try  a  mild  joke  on  them,  by  pretending  that  they 
299 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

are  a  class  and  that  I  am  teaching  them  a  lesson. 
"A,  B,  C,"  I  chant,  and  wait  for  them  to  repeat 
after  me.  They  promptly  take  the  lesson  out  of  my 
hands  and  recite  the  entire  English  alphabet  in 
chorus,  winding  up  with  shouts  of  "Goot  mornin'! 
How  you  do?"  and  merry  laughter.  They  are  all 
pupils  from  the  mission  schools  which  have  been 
established  since  the  great  Massacre  of  1860,  and 
which  are  helping,  I  hope,  to  make  another  forever 
impossible. 

One  of  our  objects  in  coming  to  Hasbeiya  was  to 
ascend  Mount  Hermon.  We  send  for  the  Druse 
guide  and  the  Christian  guide;  both  of  them  assure 
us  that  the  adventure  is  impossible  on  account  oi 
the  deep  snow,  which  has  increased  during  the  last 
fortnight.  We  can  not  get  within  a  mile  of  the 
summit.  The  snow  will  be  waist-deep  in  the 
hollows.  The  mountain  is  inaccessible  until  June. 
So,  after  exchanging  visits  with  the  missionaries  and 
seeing  something  of  their  good  work,  we  ride  on  our 
way  the  next  morning. 


300 


THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

II 
RASHEIYA    AND    ITS    AMERICANISM 

THE  journey  to  Rasheiya  Is  like  that  of  the  pre- 
ceding day,  except  that  the  bridle-paths  are 
rougher  and  more  precipitous,  and  the  views  wider 
and  more  splendid.  We  have  crossed  the  Hasbanf 
again,  and  leaving  the  Druses'  valley,  the  Wadi  et- 
Teim,  behind  us,  have  climbed  the  high  table-land  to 
the  west.  We  did  not  know  why  George  Cavalcanty 
led  us  away  from  the  path  marked  in  our  Baedeker, 
but  we  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  some  good 
reason.  It  is  well  not  to  ask  a  wise  dragoman  all 
the  questions  that  you  can  think  of.  Tell  him  where 
you  want  to  go,  and  let  him  show  you  how  to  get 
there.  Certainly  we  are  not  inclined  to  complain 
of  the  longer  and  steeper  route  by  which  he  has 
brought  us,  when  we  sit  down  at  lunch-time  among 
the  limestone  crags  and  pinnacles  of  the  wild  upland 
and  look  abroad  upon  a  landscape  which  offers 
the  grandeur  of  immense  outlines  and  vast  distances, 
the  beauty  of  a  crystal  clearness  in  all  its  infinitely 
301 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

varied  forms,  and  the  enchantment  of  gemlike  col- 
ours, delicate,  translucent,  vivid,  shifting  and  playing 
in  hues  of  rose  and  violet  and  azure  and  purple  and 
golden  brown  and  bright  green,  as  if  the  bosom  of 
Mother  Earth  were  the  breast  of  a  dove,  breathing 
softly  in  the  sunlight. 

As  we  climb  toward  Rasheiya  we  find  our- 
selves going  back  a  month  or  more  into  early  spring. 
Here  are  the  flowers  that  we  saw  in  the  Plain  of 
Sharon  on  the  first  of  April,  gorgeous  red  anem- 
ones, fragrant  purple  and  white  cyclamens,  delicate 
blue  irises.  The  fig-tree  is  putting  forth  her  tender 
leaf.  The  vines,  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  are  bare 
and  dormant.  The  springing  grain,  a  few  inches 
long,  is  in  its  first  flush  of  almost  dazzling  green. 

The  town,  built  in  terraces  on  three  sides  of  a 
rocky  hill,  4,100  feet  above  the  sea,  commands  an 
extensive  view.  Hermon  is  in  full  sight;  snow- 
capped Lebanon  and  Anti-Lebanon  face  each 
other  for  forty  miles;  and  the  little  lake  of  Kafr  Kuk 
makes  a  spot  of  blue  light  in  the  foreground. 

We  are  camped  on  the  threshing-floor,  a  level  mead- 
ow beyond  and  below  the  town;  and  there  the  Ras- 
302 


THE   ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

heiyan  gilded  youth  come  riding  their  blooded  horses 
in  the  afternoon,  running  races  over  the  smooth  turf 
and  showing  off  their  horsemanship  for  our  benefit. 

There  is  something  very  attractive  about  these  Ara- 
bian horses  as  you  see  them  in  their  own  country. 
They  are  spirited,  fearless,  sure-footed,  and  yet, 
as  a  rule,  so  docile  that  they  may  be  ridden  with  a 
halter.  They  are  good  for  a  long  journey,  or  a  swift 
run,  or  a  fantasia.  The  prevailing  colour  among 
them  is  gray,  but  you  see  many  bays  and  sorrels  and 
a  few  splendid  blacks.  An  Arabian  stallion  satisfies 
the  romantic  ideal  of  how  a  horse  ought  to  look. 
His  arched  neck,  small  head,  large  eyes  wide  apart, 
short  body,  round  flanks,  delicate  pasterns,  and  little 
feet;  the  way  he  tosses  his  mane  and  cocks  his  flow- 
ing tail  when  he  is  on  parade;  the  swiftness  and 
spring  of  his  gallop,  the  dainty  grace  of  his  walk — 
when  you  see  these  things  you  recognise  at  once  the 
real,  original  horse  which  the  painters  used  to  depict 
in  their  "Portraits  of  General  X  on  his  Favourite 
Charger." 

I  asked  Calvalcanty  what  one  of  these  fine  crea- 
tures would  cost.  "A  good  horse,  two  or  three  hun- 
303 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

dred  dollars;  an  extra-good  one,  four  hundred;  a 
fancy  one,  who  knows  ?  " 

We  find  Rasheiya  full  of  Americanism.  We 
walk  out  to  take  photographs,  and  at  almost  every 
street  corner  some  young  man  who  has  been  in  the 
United  States  or  Canada  salutes  us  with:  "How  are 
you  to-day?  You  fellows  come  from  America? 
What's  the  news  there?  Is  Bryan  elected  yet?  I 
voted  for  McKinley.  I  got  a  store  in  Kankakee. 
I  got  one  in  Jackson,  Miss."  A  beautiful  dark-eyed 
girl,  in  a  dreadful  department-store  dress,  smiles  at 
us  from  an  open  door  and  says:  "Take  my  picture  ? 
I  been  at  America." 

One  talkative  and  friendly  fellow  joins  us  in  our 
walk;  in  fact  he  takes  possession  of  us,  guiding  us 
up  the  crooked  alleys  and  out  on  the  housetops 
which  command  the  best  views,  and  showing  us  off 
to  his  friends, — an  old  gentleman  who  is  spinning 
goats'  hair  for  the  coarse  black  tents  (St.  Paul's 
trade),  and  two  ladies  who  are  grinding  corn  in  a 
hand-mill,  one  pushing  and  the  other  pulling.  Our 
self-elected  guide  has  spent  seven  years  in  Illinois 
and  Indiana,  peddling  and  store-keeping.  He  has 
304 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

returned  to  Rasheiya  as  a  successful  adventurer 
and  built  a  stone  house  with  a  red  roof  and  an 
arched  portico.  Is  he  going  to  settle  down  there  for 
life?  "I  not  know,"  says  he.  "Guess  I  want  sell 
my  house  now.  This  country  beautiful;  I  like  look 
at  her.  But  America  free — good  government — good 
place  to  live.  Gee  whiz !  I  go  back  quick,  you  bet." 

Ill 

ANTI-LEBANON    AND    THE    RIVER 
ABANA 

OUH  path  the  next  day  leads  up  to  the  east  over  the 
ridges  of  the  slight  depression  which  lies  between 
Mount  Hermon  and  the  rest  of  the  Anti-Lebanon 
range.  We  pass  the  disconsolate  village  and  lake 
of  Kafr  Kuk.  The  water  which  shone  so  blue  in  the 
distance  now  confesses  itself  a  turbid,  stagnant  pool, 
locked  in  among  the  hills,  and  breeding  fevers  for 
those  who  live  beside  it.  The  landscape  grows  wild 
and  sullen  as  we  ascend;  the  hills  are  strewn  with 
shattered  fragments  of  rock,  or  worn  into  battered 
and  fantastic  crags;  the  bottoms  of  the  ravines 
305 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

are  soaked  and  barren  as  if  the  winter  floods  had 
just  left  them.  Presently  we  are  riding  among 
great  snowdrifts.  It  is  the  first  day  of  May.  We 
walk  on  the  snow,  and  pack  a  basketful  on  one  of 
the  mules,  and  pelt  each  other  with  snowballs. 

We  have  gone  back  another  month  in  the  calendar 
and  are  now  at  the  place  where  "  winter  lingers  in 
the  lap  of  spring."  Snowdrops,  crocuses,  and  little 
purple  grape-hyacinths  are  blooming  at  the  edge 
of  the  drifts.  The  thorny  shrubs  and  bushes,  and 
spiny  herbs  like  astragalus  and  cousinia,  are  green- 
stemmed  but  leafless,  and  the  birds  that  flutter 
among  them  are  still  in  the  first  rapture  of  vernal 
bliss,  the  gay  music  that  follows  mating  and  pre- 
cedes nesting.  Big  dove-coloured  partridges,  beau- 
tifully marked  with  black  and  red,  are  running 
among  the  rocks.  We  are  at  the  turn  of  the  year, 
the  surprising  season  when  the  tide  of  light  and  life 
and  love  swiftly  begins  to  rise. 

From    this   Alpine   region   we   descend   through 

two  months  in  hah*  a  day.    It  is  mid-March  on  a 

beautiful  green  plain  where  herds  of  horses  were 

feeding  around  an  encampment  of  black  Bedouin 

306 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

tents;  the  beginning  of  April  at  Khan  Meithelun, 
on  the  post-road,  where  there  are  springs,  and 
poplar-groves,  in  one  of  which  we  eat  our  lunch, 
with  lemonade  cooled  by  the  snows  of  Hermon;  the 
end  of  April  at  Dimas,  where  we  find  our  tents 
pitched  upon  the  threshing-floor,  a  levelled  terrace 
of  clay  looking  down  upon  the  flat  roofs  of  the  village. 

Our  camp  is  3,600  feet  above  sea-level,  and 
our  morning  path  follows  the  telegraph-poles  steeply 
down  to  the  post-road,  and  so  by  a  more  grad- 
ual descent  along  the  hard  and  dusty  turnpike 
toward  Damascus.  The  landscape,  at  first,  is  bare 
and  arid :  rounded  reddish  mountains,  gray  hillsides, 
yellowish  plains  faintly  tinged  with  a  thin  green. 
But  at  El-Hami  the  road  drops  into  the  valley  of 
the  Barada,  the  far-famed  River  Abana,  and  we 
find  ourselves  in  a  verdant  paradise. 

Tall  trees  arch  above  the  road;  white  balconies 
gleam  through  the  foliage;  the  murmur  and  the 
laughter  of  flowing  streams  surround  us.  The  rail- 
road and  the  carriage-road  meet  and  cross  each  other 
down  the  vale.  Country  houses  and  cafes,  some  dingy 
and  dilapidated,  others  new  and  trim,  are  half  hidden 
307 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

among  the  groves  or  perched  close  beside  the  high- 
way. Poplars  and  willows,  plane-trees  and  lindens, 
walnuts  and  mulberries,  apricots  and  almonds, 
twisted  fig-trees  and  climbing  roses,  grow  joyfully 
wherever  the  parcelled  water  flows  in  its  many 
channels.  Above  this  line,  on  the  sides  of  the  vale, 
everything  is  bare  and  brown  and  dry.  But  the 
depth  of  the  valley  is  an  embroidered  sash  of  bloom 
laid  across  the  sackcloth  of  the  desert.  And  in  the 
centre  of  this  long  verdure  runs  the  parent  river,  a 
flood  of  clear  green;  rushing,  leaping,  curling  into 
white  foam ;  filling  its  channel  of  thirty  or  forty  feet 
from  bank  to  bank,  and  making  the  silver-leafed 
willows  and  poplars,  that  stand  with  their  feet  in 
the  stream,  tremble  with  the  swiftness  of  its  cool, 
strong  current.  Truly  Naaman  the  Syrian  was  right 
in  his  boasting  to  the  prophet  Elisha:  Abana,  the 
river  of  Damascus,  is  better  than  all  the  waters  of 
Israel. 

The    vale   narrows    as    we    descend    along   the 

stream,  until  suddenly  we  pass  through  a  gateway 

of  steep  cliffs  and  emerge  upon  an  open  plain  beset 

with  mountains  on  three  sides.    The  river,  parting 

308 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

into  seven  branches,  goes  out  to  water  a  hundred  and 
fifty  square  miles  of  groves  and  gardens,  and  we 
follow  the  road  through  the  labyrinth  of  rich  and 
luscious  green.  There  are  orchards  of  apricots 
enclosed  with  high  mud  walls;  and  open  gates 
through  which  we  catch  glimpses  of  crimson  rose- 
trees  and  scarlet  pomegranates  and  little  fields  of 
wheat  glowing  with  blood-red  poppies;  and  hedges 
of  white  hawthorn  and  wild  brier;  and  trees,  trees, 
trees,  everywhere  embowering  us  and  shutting  us  in. 
Presently  we  see,  above  the  leafy  tops,  a  sharp- 
pointed  minaret  with  a  golden  crescent  above  it. 
Then  we  find  ourselves  again  beside  the  main 
current  of  the  Barada,  running  swift  and  merry  in 
a  walled  channel  straight  across  an  open  common, 
where  soldiers  are  exercising  their  horses,  and 
donkeys  and  geese  are  feeding,  and  children  are 
playing,  and  dyers  are  sprinkling  their  long  strips  of 
blue  cotton  cloth  laid  out  upon  the  turf  beside  the 
river.  The  road  begins  to  look  like  the  commence- 
ment of  a  street;  domes  and  minarets  rise  before 
us;  there  are  glimpses  of  gray  walls  and  towers, 
a  few  shops  and  open-air  cafes,  a  couple  of  hotel 
309 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

signs.  The  river  dives  under  a  bridge  and  disap- 
pears by  a  hundred  channels  beneath  the  city, 
leaving  us  at  the  western  entrance  of  Damascus. 

IV 

THE    CITY    THAT  A   LITTLE    RIVER 
MADE 

I  CANNOT  tell  whether  the  river,  the  gardens,  and 
the  city  would  have  seemed  so  magical  and  entranc- 
ing if  we  had  come  upon  them  in  some  other  way  or 
seen  them  in  a  different  setting.  You  can  never 
detach  an  experience  from  its  matrix  and  weigh  it 
alone.  Comparisons  with  the  environs  of  Naples 
or  Florence  visited  in  an  automobile,  or  with  the 
suburbs  of  Boston  seen  from  a  trolley-car,  are  futile 
and  unilluminating. 

The  point  about  the  Barada  is  that  it  springs 
full-born  from  the  barren  sides  of  the  Anti-Lebanon, 
swiftly  creates  a  paradise  as  it  runs,  and  then  dis- 
appears absolutely  in  a  wide  marsh  on  the  edge  of 
the  desert. 

The  point  about  Damascus  is  that  she  flourishes 
310 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

on  a  secluded  plain,  the  Ghutah,  seventy  miles 
from  the  sea  and  twenty-three  hundred  feet  above 
it,  with  no  hinterland  and  no  sustaining  provinces, 
no  political  leadership,  and  no  special  religious 
sanctity,  with  nothing,  in  fact,  to  account  for  her 
distinction,  her  splendour,  her  populous  vitality, 
her  self-sufficing  charm,  except  her  mysterious 
and  enduring  quality  as  a  mere  city,  a  hive  of 
men.  She  is  the  oldest  living  city  in  the  world; 
no  one  knows  her  birthday  or  her  founder's 
name.  She  has  survived  the  empires  and  kingdoms 
which  conquered  her, — Nineveh,  Babylon,  Samaria, 
Greece,  Egypt — their  capitals  are  dust,  but  Damas- 
cus still  blooms  "like  a  tree  planted  by  the  rivers  of 
water."  She  has  given  her  name  to  the  reddest  of 
roses,  the  sweetest  of  plums,  the  richest  of  metal- 
work,  and  the  most  lustrous  of  silks;  her  streets 
have  bubbled  and  eddied  with  the  currents  of 

the  multitudinous  folk 
That  do  inhabit  her  and  make  her  great. 

She  is   the  typical   city,   pure   and   simple,   of  the 

Orient,  as  New  York  or  San  Francisco  is  of  the 

311 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

Occident:  the  open  port  on  the  edge  of  the  desert, 
the  trading-booth  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  the 
pavilion  in  the  heart  of  the  blossoming  bower, — the 
wonderful  child  of  a  little  river  and  an  imme- 
morial Spirit  of  Place. 

Every  time  we  go  into  the  city,  (whether  from 
our  tents  on  the  terrace  above  an  ancient  and  dilapi- 
dated pleasure-garden,  or  from  our  red-tiled  rooms 
in  the  good  Hotel  d'Orient,  to  which  we  had  been 
driven  by  a  plague  of  sand-flies  in  the  camp),  we 
step  at  once  into  a  chapter  of  the  "Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments . ' ' 

It  is  true,  there  are  electric  lights  and  there  is 
a  trolley-car  crawling  around  the  city;  but  they  no 
more  make  it  Western  and  modern  than  a  bead 
necklace  would  change  the  character  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo.  The  driver  of  the  trolley-car  looks  like 
one  of  "The  Three  Calenders,"  and  a  gayly  dressed 
little  boy  beside  him  blows  loudly  on  an  instrument 
of  discord  as  the  machine  tranquilly  advances 
through  the  crowd.  (A  man  was  run  over  a  few 
months  ago ;  his  friends  waited  for  the  car  to  come 
around  the  next  day,  pulled  the  driver  from  his 
312 


THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

perch,    and  stuck  a  number  of  long  knives  through 
him  in  a  truly  Oriental  manner.) 

The  crowd  itself  is  of  the  most  indescribable 
and  engaging  variety  and  vivacity.  The  Turkish 
soldiers  in  dark  uniform  and  red  fez;  the  cheer- 
ful, grinning  water-carriers  with  their  dripping, 
bulbous  goatskins  on  their  backs;  the  white- 
turbaned  Druses  with  their  bold,  clean-cut  faces; 
the  bronzed,  impassive  sons  of  the  desert,  with  their 
flowing  mantles  and  bright  head-cloths  held  on  by 
thick,  dark  rolls  of  camel's  hair;  the  rich  merchants 
in  their  silken  robes  of  many  colours;  the  pictu- 
resquely ragged  beggars;  the  Moslem  pilgrims 
washing  their  heads  and  feet,  with  much  splashing, 
at  the  pools  in  the  marble  courtyards  of  the  mosques; 
the  merry  children,  running  on  errands  or  playing 
with  the  water  that  gushes  from  many  a  spout  at  the 
corner  of  a  street  or  on  the  wall  of  a  house;  the 
veiled  Mohammedan  women  slipping  silently  through 
the  throng,  or  bending  over  the  trinkets  or  fabrics  in 
some  open-fronted  shop,  lifting  the  veil  for  a  mo- 
ment to  show  an  olive-tinted  cheek  and  a  pair  of 
long,  liquid  brown  eyes;  the  bearded  Greek  priests 
313 


THE   ROAD  TO    DAMASCUS 

in  their  black  robes  and  cylinder  hats;  the  Christian 
women  wrapped  in  their  long  white  sheets,  but  with 
their  pretty  faces  uncovered,  and  a  red  rose  or  a 
white  jasmine  stuck  among  their  smooth,  shining 
black  tresses;  the  seller  of  lemonade  with  his  gaily 
decorated  glass  vessel  on  his  back  and  his  clinking 
brass  cups  in  his  hand,  shouting,  "A  remedy  for  the 
heat," — "  Cheer  up  your  hearts,"-  -"  Take  care  of 
your  teeth";  the  boy  peddling  bread,  with  an  im- 
mense tray  of  thin,  flat  loaves  on  his  head,  crying 
continually  to  Allah  to  send  him  customers;  the 
seller  of  turnip-pickle  with  a  huge  pink  globe  upon 
his  shoulder  looking  like  the  inside  of  a  pale  water- 
melon; the  donkeys  pattering  along  between  fat 
burdens  of  grass  or  charcoal;  a  much-bedizened 
horseman  with  embroidered  saddle-cloth  and  glitter- 
ing bridle,  riding  silent  and  haughty  through  the 
crowd  as  if  it  did  not  exist;  a  victoria  dashing  along 
the  street  at  a  trot,  with  whip  cracking  like  a  pack  of 
firecrackers,  and  shouts  of,  "O  boy!  Look  out  for 
your  back!  your  foot!  your  side!" — all  these  figures 
are  mingled  in  a  passing  show  of  which  we  never 
grow  weary. 

314 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

The  long  bazaars,  covered  with  a  round,  wooden 
archway  rising  from  the  second  story  of  the  houses, 
are  filled  with  a  rich  brown  hue  like  a  well-coloured 
meerschaum  pipe;  and  through  this  mellow,  bru- 
mous atmosphere  beams  of  golden  sunlight  slant 
vividly  from  holes  in  the  roof.  An  immense  number 
of  shops,  small  and  great, .  shelter  themselves  in 
these  bazaars,  for  the  most  part  opening,  without 
any  reserve  of  a  front  wall  or  a  door,  in  frank  invita- 
tion to  the  street.  On  the  earthen  pavement,  beaten 
hard  as  cement,  camels  are  kneeling,  while  the 
merchants  let  down  their  corded  bales  and  dis- 
play their  Persian  carpets  or  striped  silks.  The 
cook-shops  show  their  wares  and  their  processes, 
and  send  up  an  appetising  smell  of  lamb  kibabs  and 
fried  fish  and  stuffed  cucumbers  and  stewed  beans 
and  okra,  and  many  other  dainties  preparing  on 
diminutive  charcoal  grills. 

In  the  larger  and  richer  shops,  arranged  in  semi- 
European  fashion,  there  are  splendid  rugs,  and 
embroideries  old  and  new,  and  delicately  chiselled 
brasswork,  and  furniture  of  strange  patterns  lav- 
ishly inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl;  and  there  I  go 
315 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

with  the  Lady  to  study  the  art  of  bargaining  as 
practised  between  the  trained  skill  of  the  Levant 
and  the  native  genius  of  Walla  Walla,  Washington. 
In  the  smaller  and  poorer  bazaars  the  high,  arched 
roofs  give  place  to  tattered  awnings,  and  some- 
times to  branches  of  trees;  the  brown  air  changes 
to  an  atmosphere  of  brilliant  stripes  and  patches; 
the  tiny  shops,  (hardly  more  than  open  booths), 
are  packed  and  festooned  with  all  kinds  of  goods, 
garments  and  ornaments:  the  chaff erers  conduct 
their  negotiations  from  the  street,  (sidewalk  there 
is  none),  or  squat  beside  the  proprietor  on  the  little 
platform  of  his  stall. 

The  custom  of  massing  the  various  trades  and 
manufactures  adds  to  the  picturesque  joy  of  shop- 
ping or  dawdling  in  Damascus.  It  is  like  passing 
through  rows  of  different  kinds  of  strange  fruits. 
There  is  a  region  of  dangling  slippers,  red  and 
yellow,  like  cherries;  a  little  farther  on  we  come  to 
a  long  trellis  of  clothes,  limp  and  pendulous,  like 
bunches  of  grapes;  then  we  pass  through  a  patch 
of  saddles,  plain  and  coloured,  decorated  with  all 
sorts  of  beads  and  tinsel,  velvet  and  morocco,  lying 
316 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

on  the  ground  or  hung  on  wooden  supports,  like  big, 
fantastic  melons. 

In  the  coppersmiths'  bazaar  there  is  an  incessant 
clattering  of  little  hammers  upon  hollow  metal.  The 
goldsmiths  sit  silent  in  their  pens  within  a  vast,  dim 
building,  or  bend  over  their  miniature  furnaces 
making  gold  and  silver  filigree.  Here  are  the  car- 
penters using  their  bare  feet  in  their  work  almost  as 
deftly  as  their  fingers;  and  yonder  the  dyers  fes- 
tooning their  long  strips  of  blue  cotton  from  their 
windows  and  balconies.  Down  there,  on  the  way 
to  the  Great  Mosque,  the  booksellers  hold  together: 
a  dwindling  tribe,  apparently,  for  of  the  thirty  or 
forty  shops  which  were  formerly  theirs  not  more 
than  half  a  dozen  remain  true  to  literature :  the  rest 
are  full  of  red  and  yellow  slippers.  Damascus  is 
more  inclined  to  loafing  or  to  dancing  than  to 
reading.  It  seems  to  belong  to  the  gay,  smiling, 
easy-going  East  of  Scheherazade  and  Aladdin,  not 
to  the  sombre  and  reserved  Orient  of  fierce  mystics 
and  fanatical  fatalists. 

Yet  we  feel,  or  imagine  that  we  feel,  the  hidden 
presence  of  passions  and  possibilities  that  belong  to 
317 


THE   ROAD   TO   DAMASCUS 

the  tragic  side  of  life  underneath  this  laughing  mask 
of  comedy.  No  longer  ago  than  1860,  in  the  great 
Massacre,  five  thousand  Christians  perished  by  fire 
and  shot  and  dagger  in  two  days;  the  streets  ran  with 
blood;  the  churches  were  piled  with  corpses;  hun- 
dreds of  Christian  women  were  dragged  away  to 
Moslem  harems;  only  the  brave  Abd-el-Kader,  with 
his  body-guard  of  dauntless  Algerine  veterans,  was 
able  to  stay  the  butchery  by  flinging  himself  between 
the  blood-drunken  mob  and  their  helpless  victims. 
This  was  the  last  wholesale  assassination  of 
modern  times  that  a  great  city  has  seen,  and  pros- 
perous, pleasure-loving,  insouciant  Damascus  seems 
to  have  quite  forgotten  it.  Yet  there  are  still 
enough  wild  Kurdish  shepherds,  and  fierce  Bedouins 
of  the  desert,  and  riffraff  of  camel-drivers  and 
herdsmen  and  sturdy  beggars  and  homeless  men, 
among  her  three  hundred  thousand  people  to  make 
dangerous  material  if  the  tiger-madness  should 
break  loose  again.  A  gay  city  is  not  always  a  safe 
city.  The  Lady  and  I  saw  a  man  stabbed  to  death 
at  noon,  not  fifty  feet  away  from  us,  in  a  street  be- 
side the  Ottoman  Bank. 

318 


THE   ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

Nothing  is  safe  until  justice  and  benevolence 
and  tolerance  and  mutual  respect  are  diffused  in 
the  hearts  of  men.  How  far  this  inward  change 
has  gone  in  Damascus  no  one  can  tell.  But  that 
some  advance  has  been  made,  by  real  reforms  in 
the  Turkish  government,  by  the  spread  of  intelli- 
gence and  the  enlightenment  of  self-interest,  by  the 
sense  of  next-doorness  to  Paris  and  Berlin  and  Lon- 
don, which  telegraphs,  railways,  and  steamships 
have  produced,  above  all  by  the  useful  work  of 
missionary  hospitals  and  schools,  and  by  the  human- 
izing process  which  has  been  going  on  inside  of 
all  the  creeds,  no  careful  observer  can  doubt.  I 
fear  that  men  will  still  continue  to  kill  each  other, 
for  various  causes,  privately  and  publicly.  But 
thank  God  it  is  not  likely  to  be  done  often,  if  ever 
again,  in  the  name  of  Religion! 

The  medley  of  things  seen  and  half  understood 
has  left  patterns  damascened  upon  my  memory  with 
intricate  clearness:  immense  droves  of  camels  com- 
ing up  from  the  wilderness  to  be  sold  in  the  market; 
factories  of  inlaid  woodwork  and  wrought  brasswork 
in  which  hundreds  of  young  children,  with  beautiful 
319 


THE    ROAD   TO   DAMASCUS 

and  seeming-merry  faces,  are  hammering  and  fil- 
ing and  cutting  out  the  designs  traced  by  the 
draughtsmen  who  sit  at  their  desks  like  schoolmas- 
ters; vast  mosques  with  rows  of  marble  columns, 
and  floors  covered  with  bright-coloured  rugs,  and 
files  of  men,  sometimes  two  hundred  in  a  line,  with 
a  leader  in  front  of  them,  making  their  concerted 
genuflections  toward  Mecca;  costly  interiors  of 
private  houses  which  outwardly  show  bare  white- 
washed walls,  but  within  welcome  the  stranger  to 
hospitality  of  fruits,  coffee,  and  sweetmeats,  in 
stately  rooms  ornamented  with  rich  tiles  and  precious 
marbles,  looking  upon  arcaded  courtyards  fragrant 
with  blossoming  orange-trees  and  musical  with 
tinkling  fountains;  tombs  of  Moslem  warriors  and 
saints, — Saladin,  the  Sultan  Beibars,  the  Sheikh 
Arslan,  the  philosopher  Ibn-el-Arabi,  great  fighters 
now  quiet,  and  restless  thinkers  finally  satisfied; 
public  gardens  full  of  rose-bushes,  traversed  by 
clear,  swift  streams,  where  groups  of  women  sit  gos- 
siping in  the  shade  of  the  trees  or  in  little  kiosques, 
the  Mohammedans  with  their  light  veils  not  alto- 
gether hiding  their  olive  faces  and  languid  eyes,  the 
320 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

Christians  and  Jewesses  with  bare  heads,  heavy 
necklaces  of  amber,  flowers  behind  their  ears,  silken 
dresses  of  soft  and  varied  shades;-  cafes  by  the 
river,  where  grave  and  important  Turks  pose  for 
hours  on  red  velvet  divans,  smoking  the  successive 
cigarette  or  the  continuous  nargileh.  Out  of  these 
memory-pictures  of  Damascus  I  choose  three. 

The  Lady  and  I  are  climbing  up  from  the  great 
Mosque  of  the  Ommayyades  into  the  Minaret  of  the 
Bride,  at  the  hour  of  'Asr,  or  afternoon  prayer.  As 
we  tread  the  worn  spiral  steps  in  the  darkness  we 
hear,  far  above,  the  chant  of  the  choir  of  muezzins, 
high-pitched,  long-drawn,  infinitely  melancholy, 
calling  the  faithful  to  their  devotions. 

"Allahakbarl  Allah  akbarl  Allah  is  great!  I 
testify  there  is  no  God  but  Allah,  and  Mohammed  is 
the  prophet  of  Allah  I  Come  to  prayer  I" 

The  plaintive  notes  float  away  over  the  city 
toward  all  four  quarters  of  the  sky,  and  quaver  into 
silence.  We  come  out  from  the  gloom  of  the  stair- 
case into  the  dazzling  light  of  the  balcony  which 
runs  around  the  top  of  the  minaret.  For  a  few 
321 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

moments  we  can  see  little;  but  when  the  first  bewil- 
derment passes,  we  are  conscious  that  all  the  charm 
and  wonder  of  Damascus  are  spread  at  our  feet. 
The  oval  mass  of  the  city  lies  like  a  carving 
of  old  ivory,  faintly  tinged  with  pink,  on  a  huge 
table  of  malachite.  The  setting  of  groves  and  gar- 
dens, luxuriant,  interminable,  deeply  and  beauti- 
fully green,  covers  a  circuit  of  sixty  miles.  Beyond 
it,  in  sharpest  contrast,  rise  the  bare,  fawn-coloured 
mountains,  savage,  intractable,  desolate;  away  to 
the  west,  the  snow-crowned  bulk  of  Hermon;  away 
to  the  east,  the  low-rolling  hills  and  slumbrous  haze 
of  the  desert.  Under  these  flat  roofs  and  white 
domes  and  long  black  archways  of  bazaars  three 
hundred  thousand  folk  are  swarming.  And  there, 
half  emerging  from  the  huddle  of  decrepit  modern 
buildings  and  partly  hidden  by  the  rounded  shed  of  a 
bazaar,  is  the  ruined  top  of  a  Roman  arch  of  tri- 
umph, battered,  proud,  and  indomitable. 

An  hour  later  we  are  scrambling  up  a  long,  shaky 
ladder  to  the  flat  roofs  of  the  joiners'  bazaar,  built 
close  against  the  southern  wall  of  the  Mosque.    We 
322 


THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

walk  across  the  roofs  and  find  the  ancient  south 
door  of  the  Mosque,  now  filled  up  with  masonry,  and 
almost  completely  concealed  by  the  shops  above 
which  we  are  standing.  Only  the  entablature  is 
visible,  richly  carved  with  garlands.  Kneeling  down, 
we  read  upon  the  lintel  the  Greek  inscription  in 
uncial  letters,  cut  when  the  Mosque  was  a  Christian 
church.  The  Moslems  who  are  bowing  and  kneeling 
and  stretching  out  their  hands  toward  Mecca  among 
the  marble  pillars  below,  know  nothing  of  this  in- 
scription. Few  even  of  the  Christian  visitors  to 
Damascus  have  ever  seen  it  with  their  own  eyes,  for 
it  is  difficult  to  find  and  read.  But  there  it  still 
endures  and  waits,  the  bravest  inscription  in  the 
world :  "  Thy  kingdom,  O  Christ,  is  a  kingdom  of  aU 
ages,  and  Thy  dominion  lasts  throughout  all  genera- 
tions." 

From  this  eloquent  and  forgotten  stone  my  mem- 
ory turns  to  the  Hospital  of  the  Edinburgh  Medical 
Mission.  I  see  the  lovely  garden  full  of  roses,  col- 
umbines, lilies,  pansies,  sweet-peas,  strawberries 
just  in  bloom.  I  see  the  poor  people  coming  in  a 
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THE    ROAD   TO    DAMASCUS 

steady  stream  to  the  neat,  orderly  dispensary;  the 
sweet,  clean  wards  with  their  spotless  beds;  the 
merciful  candour  and  completeness  of  the  operating- 
room;  the  patient,  cheerful,  vigorous,  healing  ways 
of  the  great  Scotch  doctor,  who  limps  around  on  his 
broken  leg  to  minister  to  the  needs  of  other  folk. 
I  see  the  little  group  of  nurses  and  physicians  gath- 
ered on  Sunday  evening  in  the  doctor's  parlour  for 
an  hour  of  serious,  friendly  talk,  hopeful  and  happy. 
And  there,  amid  the  murmur  of  Abana's  rills,  and 
close  to  the  confused  and  glittering  mystery  of  the 
Orient,  I  hear  the  music  of  a  simple  hymn : 

"Dear  Lord  and  Father  of  mankind, 

Forgive  our  foolish  ways! 
Reclothe  us  in  our  rightful  mind, 
In  purer  lives  thy  service  find, 

In  deeper  reverence,  praise. 

"O  Sabbath  rest  by  Galilee! 

O  calm  of  hills  above, 
Where  Jesus  knelt  to  share  with  Thee 
The  silence  of  eternity 
Interpreted  by  love! 
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THE    ROAD    TO    DAMASCUS 

"Drop  thy  still  dews  of  quietness, 

Till  all  our  strivings  cease; 
Take  from  our  souls  the  strain  and  stress. 
And  let  our  ordered  lives  confess 

The  beauty  of  Thy  peace." 


325 


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